To be or not to be a ski bunny
I can be a perfectionist in certain aspects of my life.There’s the whole fixation on correct spelling and proper grammar, especially when reading a menu. And I can be downright anal about matching my shoes with my purse.Except when I’m wearing bowling shoes. I can’t do the multi-colored vinyl purse, no matter what fashion guru Mr. Black says.After opening day at Sunlight Friday, I was reminded that there a few things in life I enjoy, but can’t seem to perfect.Skiing is one. Learning all the words to that Rupert Holmes’ song “Escape” about pina coladas and making love in the rain is another.I’ll be the first to blame myself for not developing into a bad mamajama skier. I’m too cheap to invest in lessons and I’m a chicken about going really fast.I’ve been called a ski bunny, but not the kind who wears a cotton tail and pink satin ears to parties with Hugh Hefner. Let’s just say I would match my jacket and pants to my skis if I could afford it, and I like to take my time.I could blame my lack of expert skiing skills on being a flatlander. The only mountain I rode as a kid was Space Mountain in Disney World. My dad talked me into riding in the front seat and I ended up in the fetal position on the roller coaster car floor.I’ll take the log ride any day.I know many Midwesterners who are really great skiers, so the Hoosier card is not going to cut it.I can’t play basketball very well either, which may shock those who assume that’s all everyone does in Indiana. I was an extra in “Hoosiers” if that means anything.The first time I ever went skiing I was with my high school boyfriend and my best girlfriend. Trust me, learning to ski for the first time with the opposite sex is as bad an idea as painting a room or moving furniture with a beau.Feelings will be hurt, no matter what – and toes too, if the armoire gets a little squirrely on the way down the stairs.Like a typical over-sensitive and frighteningly hormonal high school girl, I cried while trying to ski that day at Paoli Peaks in Indiana. And no, I wasn’t crying because I was learning on runs shorter than a playmate’s skirt at a Playboy mansion house party.I remember saying things like “I’m never skiing again” and “What’s my name again?” after the lift chair came around and smacked the back of my head after falling when unloading.Luckily I didn’t just try, fail and give-up like Color Me Badd’s music career. I kept at my attempts to improve as a skier, even buying my own pair of skis – enormously long pink, purple and teal pair K2 beauties that I used up until I moved here 2 1/2 years ago.I won’t even discuss the matching purple Ski Tote and rear-entry boots.I didn’t actually realize the real difference of an intermediate and expert skier until I came to Colorado.I didn’t know that people still live in caves before relocating here either, so cut me some slack.Now that I’ve had time to reflect on my struggling ski career, I guess I have come along way. I’ve never had lessons and I had only been on two ski vacations – one to Lake Tahoe and to Breckenridge – in my lifetime.Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. After all, being perfect at everything wouldn’t be that much fun.Someone’s got to wear the pink satin ears with matching shoes on the mountain.April E. Clark experienced her first powder day in Colorado just two seasons ago, which resulted in one traumatizing run and a lot of beer to help her forget. She can be reached at 945-8515 ext. 518 and firstname.lastname@example.org
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In a fraction of a second I went from a full sprint to skidding across the ground — pea-sized gravel gashing my knees and elbows, turning them into strawberry crisp.