I went skiing with the Wife and Kid the other day and suddenly every thing has gotten so competitive. Okay, the Wife and I skied; the Kid snowboarded. I know I already covered the Kid learning to ski, then crossing over to the dark side in a tearful column of the past. I have accepted this snowboarding thing as more than a phase she’s going through, like Rap music and saying the word, “Like” before every other word but now I must accept that she is faster than me. I can say that with impunity because she never reads my articles anymore and most of her snowboarder friends can’t read anyway. She’s all cocky now because she beat me down the slopes the other day. Now, I could go faster than her, I just choose not to. If you’re buying that line, I have a ski condo in Kansas I’d like to sell you.
Now we seem to be locked into some kind of competition or something. Where she gets this, I don’t know; must be from her Mother. It started innocently enough last year in the back bowls of Vail. She slid from one side to the other in the massive terrain until reaching the bottom. I meanwhile, pound the bumps straight down the slope. Of course, I have to stop every ten or twenty feet to catch my breath and slow down my heart which is beating so hard it is billowing out my jacket.
I tell you, it’s just not fair. I can still lose her in the bumps, but then my knees pay me back by refusing to do stairs. I finally get to the point where my brain knows exactly what to do: keep my knees bent, stand on top of my skis, lean forward, hands out in front, skis together in perfect form, but now my body parts won’t cooperate. I guess it’s another sign I’m getting old, which The Wife and Kid seem to think I need constant reminding of.
I know there may be some of you asking, “What the heck is he talking about?” I recently was informed that not everyone around here skis. That’s a surprise to me; I assumed every resident of the state was on I-70 heading east last Sunday night. I have a buddy I’ll call Jerry-mainly because that’s his name- who is a native of Colorado and has never skied. I was flabbergasted. This poor man has never had the joy of flying down a pristine, snow covered slope, with the fear of death looming over him. He has never seen his life projected on the trunk of a tree as he hurtles toward his end. He has never had a Sixteen-dollar hamburger, a two dollar Snickers bar, or a six dollar cup of Coke. He will never experience the near-orgasmic act of removing his ski-boots, nor will he share the intimate hours stuck in traffic on I-70 with two females who have to pee.
I feel for the guy. Heck, if I wasn’t a skier, I wouldn’t even know what an ACL is or what an Orthopedic Surgeon does. I bet Jerry doesn’t even know how to get around on crutches. He’s a college educated man, yet didn’t know that “Sniagrab,” is Latin for “Cheap gear.” He thinks Frisco is next to Oakland, Aspen is a tree and A-Basin is something you wash your hands in.
I’d like to know how he gets his kids to do anything without bribing them with lift tickets, and what about the life lessons they are missing. Through our days of skiing, I have taught the Kid that life is not always a competition. We can enjoy our triumphs together, relishing each other’s accomplishments and sharing joyful experiences. Even though the Kid is a snowboarder, she has learned to help people when they are down, wait your turn when getting on the lift, and most importantly, last one down buys the first round. Okay, maybe that isn’t the best lesson for a kid, especially one that can beat me to the bottom now, but it works out; I can still take the Wife.
Michael Ryan
DamnitMary.com 