As we pulled into the parking lot of the ski resort that clear April morning, one thought began to run through my mind...
"I have to put on ski pants"
Mark and I had finally gotten to our honeymoon destination, after spending the first night in a hotel room that not only came with complimentary shampoo and a shower cap, but was also generous enough to provide a free delousing kit.
Earlier, as we drove up the mountain, the passenger side window had decided it had had enough and it just wasn't going to roll back up. No matter how many times I begged it. And with no way of fixing it, we decided to chance it. We found a parking space that was a little secluded and found our way to lodge.
I feel the need to mention at this point that Mark and I had never skied. Never. We had both grown up 10 minutes from the Gulf of Mexico and Mark had water-skied as a teenager, but my size 11's (and that's not a typo) had never graced a pair of fiber-glass planks. Ever. And so, realizing our lack of experience on skis, we decided that the best course of action would be to enroll in a four hour skiing class.
Now I also feel the need to mention at this point that while we grew up 10 minutes from the Gulf of Mexico, we also grew up living at sea level. The highest point in our part of the world was a mound of slag my grandfather perpetually kept in his driveway.
And now we were standing on the top of a mountain at about 6 million feet above sea level. And I had gained 10 pounds from all the stress of our wedding. I started gasping for air walking from the lodge to the bunny slope.
And then he appeared. Our 70 year old former Olympic skier/now instructor came striding towards us. Fit as fiddle with a skier's tan to match. He wore snappy sunglasses with a fabulous cord holding them securely around his turtlenecked neck. Pearly white teeth that matched his pearly white ski pants. Bright red ski vest and black ski boots. The man looked like he had stepped out of a Pepsodent commercial.
15 minutes into the lesson I asked "when do we get a break?" Pepsodent man was not amused.
I gave it a valiant effort *cough, cough* but at the 45 minute mark I found myself sitting alone under a pine tree along side the bunny slope. At that point Pepsodent man told Mark he couldn't give him a refund on my half of the class fee. So I spent the rest of the morning, watching Pepsodent man, my new husband and three 7 year olds learn how to fall, how to stop, how to turn...well, you get it...
We ended the class, went to lunch and just when I thought we might forget about actually skiing and maybe go hang out in the gift shop, my new husband said, "Let's find the ski lift!"
Coming up...Day 2's afternoon spent in the Ski Lodge ER...