Gianni and I went skiing at Breck yesterday (Weather: A. Snow coverage: D+. Wind on top: F-). Or rather, Gianni went to ski school from 9 to 3 and I ditched him to ski on my own for 6 hours. I took advantage of my innate ability to go skiing the day before a resort gets huge heaping dumps of snow. Mostly I cruised around on whatever now hadn't been skiied off or otherwise dissipated since the last storm. It was both a great chance to get away from it all and yet another opportunity to remind myself that I'm getting older.
It's not that I can't ski like I used to. I still can. It's that the names of some of these runs are having an adverse affect on me. I used to look at runs with names like The Burn, Boneyard, and Lower Boneyard and think, oh hell yeah. In my younger days, I could go for The Burn from first chair to sundown. But now I look at The Burn and I think, "OWWwwwwww." And let's face it, as a 38-year-old white mother of two, I just feel like an asshole skiing something called "Psychopath."
The thing is, I have no trouble skiing Horseshoe or Cucumber Bowl, even though those are plenty tough. Maybe they just need a renaming campaign aimed at women sliding down the ramp toward middle age. Instead of "The Burn," call it "You Go Girl!" And rechristen "Boneyard" as, "Hooray, My Knees Still Work!"
Naturally they can't really do that because the slopes would strongly resemble a taping of Oprah. So I'll just have to do my own attitude adjustment and admit that after all these years, I'm still pretty much a psychopath.
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