I’ve been around for just shy of a few decades now, and in that time there are some things I have learned about myself. One of the things I have gotten a handle on is that bad things happen to me when I ski. Don’t take this commentary with a grain of salt, because it’s true: Bad things happen to me when I ski. I drove up Little Cottonwood Canyon yesterday, which, for those of you who don’t live in central Utah, is where Snowbird and Alta are, and those are ski resorts. It was just a drive. I did not go there to ski, and so I did not ski because I’m not what you might call an “avid skier” and the apocalypse hasn’t happened yet. I learned when I was quite small, but there is a limit to how cute an adult who doesn’t know how to use poles can be. It was something my dad and I used to do together, and that was really where most of my enjoyment from the experience came from. That, and the admiration I got from a really excellent wipeout. I once went down a mogul trail and actually flipped over backwards, landing on my knees on top of one ski with the other one about 15 feet away. There was a local radio station at the bottom of the mogul trail who applauded me. Another time, I tried to ski between two people and caught and edge which caused me to tumble end-over-end for roughly 20 yards further down the mountain. Then I actually came to with my face submerged in snow and a mouthful of ice. The king of wipeouts was the day that I ran over a snowmaking machine, though: I got a puffy black eye, a bloody nose, I knocked out a tooth, and we’re still looking for my other glove. My luck is that I’ve always been fortunate in avoiding breaking bones. That really isn’t saying too much when you still can’t sit down on your bruised tail bone, and so I leave this happy entry with this thought: Yes, I live in Utah, and no, I don’t ski. Bad things happen to me when I ski. If you have delusions of me being a graceful and lythe creature, fearless and ready to take on whatever challenge that nature will throw at me, then you should really go back to sleep. The only two places I am ready to take major falls and get up to keep going are in dancing and wakeboarding and the reason why is simple: I’m addicted, and therefore crazy, but not stupid. So please, for the love of all that is good, stop trying to convince me that if I go skiing, I’ll have a good time. History indicates otherwise, and frankly I’d rather not have my last thoughts in this world be, “wow, I’m actually going to die in a tree and I didn’t even hit it in a car.”
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