Ski-B-Gone...For Good.

As a woman, sometimes you just have to take a stand.  So I did.

As a result, the whole skiing thing came to a head last year.  It may have been the wisdom that comes with maturity (cough, or, 40).  It might have been the inevitable look and feel of appearing spastic (or really, really ugly).  And fine.  For certain it was the last-born who finally caught up and had me eating his dust by the time he turned 8 but regardless, I was done. I hung up my blades and never turned back.

I must declare, in my defense, I am no quitter.  Like I fondly (and of course often) remind my husband, he did not marry a skier.  I started to learn as my little ones did – and when we started (what has now become) the traditional family ski vacation, for sure, through the years I’ve beamed and delighted as their passion and skills increased .  I said THEIR.  I continued to suck.  And be scared.  And cold. And yes, really, really ugly.

For years, I’ve taken one for the team.  But now, to be loud and clear, I am done.

I’m not going to lie.  Skiing is not a very flattering sport and it is definitely not for the vain.  The layers….the padding….the frozen snot….good grief, I held out longer than I ever thought I could – almost a decade (says the gal who popped blood vessels in her eyes refusing to take out contacts during 4 childbirths). That “healthy” glow of crimson only manages to draw attention to any facial blemishes not hidden by scratchy wool. Fingernails either crack or fall off entirely just snapping those cumbersome Mr. Freeze-like boots.  And the hair situation…come on man, where’s the justice there?  It’s nightmarish. 

But hey, I still do the right thang.  I still take one for the (vanity) team though.  I dutifully adhere to the granola-loving-earthy-crunchy-leave-the-lip-gloss-at-home standard that seems to be the mantra of the mountain.  I respect the masses:  I keep the mascara to a minimum, I don’t shave or pluck too much (because I usually forget to pack the required implements) and I only wear my tarnished, medium-sized hoop earrings.  Scouts honor.

So now I go and have a good time and leave the whooshing and shooshing to those with love in their hearts for the slopes.  I do the mom thing (which I don’t really mind but would likely never admit to my children):  I get up early with them, drink my coffee, and stand aside to calmly blurt out the answer to the fifteen or fifty “Where’s my_______?” panic-fused inquiries.

For those snidely wondering what I do all day I will say this:  there is no napping (silly readers, everybody knows: naps are strictly for hangovers).

I’ll drive a car-full up to the expert mountains.  I’ll clean the condo.  Pack the lunch cooler.  Throw in some laundry.  Drive back up to have lunch with everyone.  Meet the man for our daily Après….

Plus, there are occasional perks for me as well – I show off my own mad skills (at the Fun Zone shuffleboard table, where I dominated – that’s right: suck it, kiddos) and I also get to have at least one romantic dinner out with my man (as romantic as one can be with five kids back at a condo and the aforementioned six layers of clothing…). 

So it’s fun.

And chock full of life lessons, which I love:

On our final morning, when I tried getting my teenaged daughter out of bed to get packed and clean her room (cue in knowing nods from all moms of these precious creatures), all I could hear from under the rumpled blankets was a muffled, “the maid will do it.”

Maid?

Really?

Curious what world she lives in….

…I then explained the difference between a hotel and a condo.

…I then explained what a security deposit is.

…I then remarked that indeed  it would be most unfortunate if our security deposit wasn’t returned due to the array of water bottles and snack wrappers and wet towels strewn all over her bedroom because…hey wait, isn’t her sixteenth birthday arriving soon?

Sadly though, the vacation was not without injury.

My husband, God love him, endured and survived sub-zero temperatures and kept up with his kids (kinda sorta – tho definitely not according to them) only to tear tendons in his arm while loading up the car.  Seriously.

(I remarked on Facebook that I only wish we had a sexier story to explain the sling.  Thankfully a few witty friends have already come up with a few for us…. )

See?  I’ve always known it was a wicked, wicked sport.

n  Tina Drakakis