Dear Diary,

3/15/15
Dear Diary,
It snowed last night. Actually, it still snows this morning. It’s pretty, snow always is, everything is covered in white again just like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Some might say the earth is in mourning, covering the woes with a clean slate; mourning over what would be up to interpretation. Maybe it’s winter sighing its last breath, or the death of freedoms, or a moment of silence in honour of the Ides, I suppose it depends on the person. Others might embrace it more jovially, the skiiers holding on for one last hurrah, the dogs who love frolicking through it, kids who suddenly become religious and start praying that the sparse flakes turn into an overnight blizzard. Maybe this snow is a little bit of everything and more. As for me, well, Diary, what this snow really means for me is hope. Hope that one day, when I wake up with snow outside my window where there’s supposed to be green instead, there is a chance I will be in Narnia.

The Snow Makes Fools of Us All

Not everyone is created equal and don’t ever forget it. We all have the same rights as human beings but you cannot tell me that you don’t watch certain people walking around Wal-mart and you don’t think it. Or that you don’t read/watch the news (as your preference may be) and don’t feel better about yourself. And you can’t justifiably say that you have never ventured out to try something new and not realized that maybe you, yes the great and wonderful you, are perhaps on the other side of the realization that not everyone is created equal.

Now let me start by saying that I am not a first time skier. I have previously gone out maybe 5 or 6 times before over a long stretch of time, and while I am still no expert, I have discovered that skiing is like riding a bike, you can pick up from where you left off.

So the other evening I head out to a local ski hill to plow some pow-pow and show off to the cute boarders with my hesitantly dubbed “skill” on the blue circle hills. It’s a perfect evening, temperatures are around -2 C, and I’m feeling confident in my very authentic skier apparel and with this opportunity at being a part of this rich-man’s sport. I can stomp around in those sleek and smooth skiing boots like I’m one of them or something. (Or something). With the sass of the knowing, I tell myself that three minutes in the chalet and I’ll have half a dozen hot, rich men wanting to sit beside me on the ski lift, of that I am sure.

However, the first trial to overcome in preserving my status as a real deal ski-girl is to get through the ski rental process without anyone seeing me leaving the rental building. Nothing says “newbie” more than having to rent your equipment.
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No, the first trial to overcome is getting the ski pass on my jacket properly. Now as I’ve said before, this is not the first, second or even third time I’ve been skiing. The steps involved with putting the little metal hook through your zipper and securing the lift ticket sticker on top is not a hard problem for anyone with a brain. But I is a arts student?

Thankfully my blond moment of showing a lack of both brains and logic was dimly noticed and my brother, anxious to get out onto the hill, rectified the situation for me by exchanging the embarrassed ticket for a more worthy one while I got my rental gear all sorted out. Being the closet ski-pro that I am I had my first boot all snapped up within seconds…..long seconds, and the second boot was snapping up with a smart sound, all except the middle fastener. Despite, or more likely in spite, of all my hand, wrist and arm muscle I have acquired in the last year from doing martial arts, I was made a mockery of, as red faced and sore fingered, the fastener simply would not shut closed. I decided for a return to chivalry and a step back in women’s liberation would be the best option here so I told my brother that he had better snap it closed for me. But no fear, ready and set to clod out of that rental place like a machine, I stood up and was “gently” reminded of the Velcro from the boots hanging on the ground. One try, two try, three tries, I’s figures it outs like d’ smart mind that’s I am, and I zip up my jacket to try and head out to the white hills.

But then I hear some snickering and exasperated I look at my brother and ask him what on earth is wrong now. Pointing at that bane of a lift ticket hanging from my jacket zipper now dangling at the top of my neck, I need no more information to know I had shown my inexperience once more. In a need to explain myself I reminded him my normal skiing jacket is currently out of commission and this zipper is the only one this jacket has and as well my ski pants were not being worn at the time of the left pass application. He accepted the excuse well enough. While I had successfully defended myself to my brother, and the uncaring rental boy behind the counter, I knew that I could not wear a sign explaining myself to everyone so I chalked up my pride and wore my dangling neck lift pass as an honor.

Finally, we were off. It was a smashing success as I found my ski legs quite quickly and with little more than some moments akin to a fat person trying to swim for the first time in my attempts to make my way up a slight incline to return to the line for the lift, I practically fit right in like a pro; or, at least, a pro taking her time going down the hills. A few controlled, respectable falls, and one that took me further down the hill on my stomach than the skis was all fun and not out of the ordinary, but then *it* happened.

As I tired and took an easy green run as a break from those demanding, steep, hard-core, Herculean even, blue runs, I was coming to the end where it flattens so you can kill off your speed and everything just fell apart. I lost my balance, I lost my core strength, I panicked, I did everything wrong and I took a terrible, ugly fall. At the end of a green. And I landed on my ski so hard I was limping the rest of the night and into the next day, the bruise for which has yet to show itself which both concerns me for its magnitude when it does appear and gives me hope that maybe it never will surface. And so it was then, after I failed to get myself standing upright and so was forced to walk the rest of the short distance off the run that I decided my day for finding Mr. Athletically Right was more of a trial run than anything. Though if asked about my limp, I would say I was simply leaning too far back when landing my 420 back flip.