How dare you imply that just because I’m a former beauty queen I don’t have other talents. How dare you. I’ll have you know I’m very delusional athletic. In fact, I recently dusted off my 15-year old downhill skis, drove seven hours to a ski hill in Quebec—well, Phil drove while I snacked, slept, and screamed when he tailgated but still…based on the distance I was willing to travel, my commitment to sport is rock solid—and showed the world what I lacked had. You heard me. Of course Miss Nackawic 1981 is a fair weather super awesome skier. Duh.
Okay fine. I won’t pretend that when we pulled up to the ginormous ski hill I didn’t for a split second regret saying, “Let’s try a different vacation this year and do something active! Blah. Blah. Blah.” The parking lot was crammed, our lift tickets cost more than our actual house skis and the ridiculous Stay Alive; Wear a Helmet posters plastered everywhere made it crystal clear I wouldn’t be wearing my tiara on the hill. Whatever.
Here’s the good news—when I got on the chair lift and took a swig of Fireball look at the gorgeous scenery, I became super euphoric and said things like, “Man, just look at this view! That sun! My new psychedelic goggles!!” During the 10-minute chairlift ride up the hill, I reminded Phil how much I loved skiing and wondered aloud more than once how anyone in their right mind could be anything less than joyful out here on the slopes. I was all: This is amaaazing! I can’t wait to destroy that hill! I am totally drunk one with the universe! I was 100% in. Boom.
Then we got to the top and I remembered my fear of heights, speed, and death by height and speed. As Phil glided towards a sign that was peppered with scary hill names like Death Do Us Part and Nice Knowin’ Ya! I screamed, “Where the **** are you going?? I’m not ready for a Black Diamond run!! Are you trying to kill me for the insurance money?? Say it out loud. Say it to my face so you can watch the life drain right out of me, you greedy son of -” After he administered CPR assured me we would stick to intermediate hills, I simmered right down.
What was I so afraid of?? Holy—I totally nailed my first bunny hill run, you guys! (See above) I was in the zone, with the sun on my face and the sound of my skis carving through the snow (like in the Olympics—that sound) as I out-skied the lazy toddlers and pretend paparazzi. When I reached my man, who was gasping for air, (serves him right for skiing ahead of me…) he said, “You’re doing great, honey, but remember what I told you about your poles–the pointy part goes in the ground. They are not wings. We’ve been over this.” Someone was obviously jealous of my new psychedelic goggles and was lashing out. I let it go.
With each hill I totally aced, I became more euphoric and I just had to share it with the world. I tweeted—Meet ‘n’ Greet in lodge 6-9 pm #Miss #Nackawic #1981; I posted on Facebook—My beloved and I having the time of our lives on expert runs and I even resorted to screaming from a mountaintop—I’m offering free
autographs ski lessons, everyone!! Suffice it to say that by the end of the day, I was ‘this close’ to becoming a member of the ski patrol—they approached me more than once to ask me to lower my poles before I took out someone’s eye join, but I politely declined. Too busy.
Frig…now that I see us side by side, it’s obvious Phil’s goggles are more psychedelic than mine!!! Why can’t that man let me shine?? Just once!
On the drive back to our adorable boutique hotel after our fantabulous day, I prepared a PowerPoint presentation on the value of a ski vacation—last count I had 52 bullet points. Boom. Once at the hotel, I kept my ski boots on so everyone would know I was an athlete and I clomped down to the bar, sat by the fireplace, and exclaimed to no one in particular, “What a day!! Just fantastic! The slopes were wicked awesome! Can’t wait for the bartender to take my order next ski day!!”
Then the next day happened. I woke up and screamed, “I need maple syrup-drenched crepes and a latte a chiropractor, STAT!! I can’t walk! I’m literally crippled!!” Phil, who pretends he’s deaf half the time, said, “Let’s go so we can get to the hill when it opens.” I responded with a hint of doubt, “Are you on actual full-blown crack?? Do you want me dead?? My muscles are seized up and there is freezing drizzle in the forecast!! We can’t ski today!”
We drove to the stupid ski hill in silence… minus the crackling sound my computer made when I set the PowerPoint presentation on fire. We were silent on the chair lift too—Phil no doubt was plotting how to ‘off me’ on the first run. Pffftt. I became super certifiable chatty, however, as I skied down the hill: “My legs!!! Abort!! Abort!! I can’t do this!! Airlift me out of here!! Don’t let my perfect form fool you! I’m in deep, serious pain!!” Mr. Insurance Money stayed like 7 miles ahead of me for whatever reason. See if I care.
I knew our marriage I was in trouble when he noticed there was no line-up at the T-Bar ski lift and said, “Let’s go there!” I responded, “I hope you find love again know my legs will literally snap off my hips if I have to stand against this metal bar for 20 minutes and also I haven’t eaten for over two hours! Is this a vacation or boot camp??” He had the audacity to question my commitment to sport: “Yesterday you were ‘euphoric’. What changed?” to which I responded, “Yesterday??! Are you kidding me?? Yesterday the sun was shining and I wasn’t crippled and the ski patrol couldn’t get enough of me and I was drunk happy and the conditions were better and I could see more than shapes and I didn’t realize there was a cute little bistro across the street from our hotel where I should be right now sipping a latte and practising my French!!” Sometimes I wonder if we even speak the same language. OMG.
I soldiered onward and completed a few more runs but when my psychedelic goggles grew a thin layer of ice, keeping me from seeing the hill, not to mention the pretend paparazzi from recognizing my golden-flecked eyes, I knew it was time to throw in the towel. “Last run!” I declared to a total stranger whom I thought was Phil because I could only see shadows due to my iced-over goggles.
My sense of smell didn’t fail me though. As I rounded the last icy corner, I got a whiff of maple syrup. Like a hound dog, I followed the scent to a maple sugar shack smack dab on the side of the hill. You heard me. I skied over
a few annoying children to the counter and offered the pleasant maple syrup worker a free autograph for some maple taffy but he didn’t answer- he just looked at me funny which compelled me to march over the the suggestion box and write this: LEARN ENGLISH!!-MN1981
Don’t tell Phil but this was the best part of Day 2. Check it:
Here’s MN1981 taking a much-needed break from the rigours of being a pretend Olympian:
Phil wanted some too but we only had $10 on us and they were $2 each so it was really hard for me to only have 3 when I really wanted 5
Thankfully the maple taffy gave me just enough fuel to get to the bottom of the bunny hill, where I kissed the ground and screamed, “This day suuuccckked!!” I winced in pain all the way to the lodge, tore off my clunky boots, replaced my ugly gray helmet with my streamlined tiara and watched people’s eyes grow large as they stared at me. Sigh…I never get tired of that, you guys. It’s such a rush!
On the drive back to the adorable boutique hotel, I patted myself on the back for my rock solid commitment to sport, but not one to rest on my laurels I blurted my best idea yet, “I’m thinking somewhere warm next year. I want to be an Olympian surfer for one hour. Boom!” How dare you doubt me. How dare you. Of course Miss Nackawic 1981 will be a fair weather super awesome surfer. Duh.