|(This family looks nice here.)|
If I don’t get to at least 10 of these with at least 1 million followers, I am going to go absolute apeshit, then get a tasteful spray tan, then shake my fists and scream obscenities at the Mainstream Media or my dog who I’ve nominated as my press secretary (with her net worth, checkered past and various conflicts of interest, she is a total shoo-in). If widely protested, a sizable wall of stacked ham could also be in your future.
To put in plain: keep reading and following if you know what’s good for you.
Consider this #1 of my alternative facts. The idea of chewing on falsehoods from my own life came to me during a short bout of insomnia I had about a week ago, in the wee hours of dark and desperate isolation, and despite my best and worst efforts to put fingers to keys, I’m finally turning the idea into a post. Now that 999,998-ish of you are fast asleep, I’ll forge ahead.
A 44-year-old woman shuffles into a cafeteria-style ski lodge called Ivan’s. She’d like to say the crick in her back stems from several wicked runs down the grownup hill (they’re hills in Michigan, folks), but it’s only the result of carrying her laptop bag in an awkward position. She may or may not have circled the parking lot like a borderline rabid seagull in search of a decent nesting place to write and grab a beer.
(Yes, I know seagulls can’t go rabid. Or can they? Learn more in alternative fact #7.)
The woman is on a trip celebrating her 19th anniversary with her husband, the real skier. In fact, he’s schussed many slopes since his childhood. Although she sometimes wishes otherwise, the woman has only shushed the slopes. Because goddamn it, something that snow-dappled and picturesque should be tranquil.
And wow, there he goes again.
The woman halts her typing, and through the salt-coated window, spots his blue coat descending toward her with grace and precision. Boy, does he look like he’s having an amazing time schussing.
What is the opposite of carpe diem? Pooh-pooh? Whatever the phrase, there are some things you simply decide to avoid at a certain age. There’s a 99 percent chance skiing is one of those things for this 44-year-old woman.
First there’s the falling and severing your ACL (anterior cruciate ligament) or your BHCL (butthole closing larynx). Trust me, a BHCL tear is a bonafide medical risk after you turn 40.
That said, the woman said she’d never run out of doors. Yet somehow she’s managed to shuffle and hobble her way through eight half-marathons and counting. So perhaps there’s hope left for her, and perhaps a severed BHCL isn’t so horrible after all.
|(These look neat here.)|
Skiing is an admirable and enviable activity, one that can spread joy across a family and a lifetime. Plus, it’s postcard pretty in winter, whether you’re atop Schuss Mountain in Northern Michigan or the Swiss Alps in, wait for it ... Switzerland.
For all ye avid skiers (and snowboarders) out there, the woman salutes you with a cup of spiked hot cocoa in hand. She also bids you the fairest of fare-thee-wells.
Seriously, so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good night. Gotta run.
Really, goodbye. She insists you take leave. A band called Risqué is on the verge of sound check at the lodge, and well, this woman also known as me is ready to stare down salacious (as long as it doesn’t involve schussing or gratuitous nudity).