So this weekend I found myself in long johns under clothes under ski pants and a heavy winter coat with a ski mask and a hat, wool socks, heavy gloves, hand warmers and goggles sitting on a moving chair twenty feet above the ground with long, thin boards strapped to my feet feeling every centimeter of skin not covered in the 5 F degree weather.
The moving chair was taking me to the top of a mountain with no way of getting down it except sliding down. And I kept doing it. For three days.
(I want to take this time to personally apologize to my thighs for not doing enough squats before this weekend. My thighs have complained and I have heard them. I am doing a Jillian Michaels workout tomorrow. I’m pretty sure.)
When you think about it, skiing is insane. People get injured all the time and the highlight of my ski days is the hot chocolate. Midway through the day, I loosen my boots, warm up, drink hot chocolate and then go back out.
I actually enjoy this.
And I force my children to do it.
I blame my Nordic Heritage. And my parents. They gave me that heritage. (Although, I may have been switched at birth and my actual parents live in the Bahamas; a secret redheaded Nordic settlement on Nassau.)