I snowboard-ed

March 20, 2005 - 9:45 p.m.

Captain Handsome has asked me a few times to go snow boarding with him and I kind of pish-poshed the idea, because even though I am a decent skier, the board sounds difficult and painful, and why go through all that when I can just stay at home naked and watch CSI? But then I read that the Dooce did it, and if she can do it, then I can do it.

So one night at a bar I casually said to him, “Baby, I want to go snowboarding with you. You can teach me the whole 'toe-heel' thing and it’ll be awesome.”

His eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “Toe-heel?? Who taught you that? Where did you hear that??”

I gave him the smile that says I’m Lying: “No one baby, I just figured, ya know, with the board you’d use your toes and heels.”

Him: “No no no no. You didn’t just know that. Where did you learn toe-heel?”

Damn, he’s so smart. I had to confess that I read it on the internet.

He brought over a snow boarding video, so I could see what it looks like to die in an avalanche, to the soundtrack of 311 and Sublime.

When we went to the kitchen to refill our cocktails he said, “First, we need to figure out which foot you’re going to lead with.” And then he grabbed my arm and said, “Here, turn around,” so I did, and he gave me a hard shove in my back and I stumbled forward, right foot first.

“Ok, now we know that you’ll lead with your right foot, which is the opposite of normal and you’ll need a different board.”

“You needed to shove me halfway across the kitchen to figure that out? I could have told you that; I play all sports with the opposite hand.”

So it was decided. Sunday would be our snow boarding trip.

We got up early to make our one-hour trek to Wisconsin. Here’s the thing about the Midwest, and why it is the asshole of America. We get to live in bitter cold conditions, every single day through the winter, with none of the perks like snowy mountains and snow recreation. Our land is completely flat and our snow is black, full of gravel and dog piss and it melts just enough to form mud pits in your yard, and create huge planes of ice covering your driveway and the streets. And since there is no real sunshine from Oct-May, the ice patches never melt, and you spend every single day slipping over the same goddamn icy sidewalk, that’s been icy since Dec 7, falling, cursing, and missing your train until you want to blow your fucking brains out.

So how do flatlanders get their fun on in the wintertime? They go skiing at a QUOTE mountain resort UNQUOTE. You have to drive about 6 hours away from Chicago to find significant snow, and 8 hours to find anything that looks like a mountain. But you can drive an hour to Wisconsin and ski on a man-made mountain with man-made snow.

It’s funny, along all of the major highways that come into Chicago, out in the suburbs, you’ll see “mountains”, tiny foothills. As children, we thought they were mountains leading into the big city, and I cried when my dad told me they were landfills. Mountains of garbage, covered with grass, surrounded by seagulls. It’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. Especially the one with the 60 foot neon McDonald’s sign sticking out of it. The Captain and I drove to the Wilmot Ski Resort, which is a retired landfill-turned mountain with snow machines.

Here’s me before I hit the slopes, fully confident, fully delusional, and looking like I’m about to rock that board like I rock the Rocawear.

He attempted to teach me snowboarding techniques on the Turtle Hill, but it was really just a session of me screaming and then falling on my face. After about an hour, we took a break and headed for the lodge to warm up by the fire.

He rested his hand on my arm and said very gently, “Ok, honey. I got you a snow boarding lesson, so at 1pm you need to go over there and meet your instructor. I’ll come back and get you in an hour and a half.” So I went outside where the class was assembling, and looked around to find peers of all ages, from 5 years old to 50. Not bad. So there are other adults like me, who need to learn the basics. The instructor then divided the “intermediates” from the “beginners” and I was sent away with a half-dozen kindergarteners and two 10 year-olds. My instructor was 15.

The first time I ran over a child I felt really bad and apologized profusely. However, each subsequent collision left me feeling more and more desensitized until I basically started looking at them like they were ants on a sidewalk, and if they didn’t move, then it’s their own damn fault and I stomped them. Damn those little buggers, it was like they were made of steel and I was a giant magnet coming down the mountain. I always aimed myself 500 feet away from a kid, but the board veered straight towards them, making S curves down the mountain, and taking kids out left and right. It’s not like they cried or anything, they just looked at me in disgust, and later they would swish on past me while I slowly descended the hill and stopped every five feet to fall on my face.

Apparently posing to be a cute snow bunny, but really just trying to play off the fact that I can’t get up.

All together now:

Heel-toe-fall.

Heel-toe-fall.

Fall-fall-fall.

Those kids – they’re like little fucking snow angels or some shit, like they have wings, as they float gracefully down the mountain on clouds made of snow. Jerks.

Eventually, my 15 year old instructor sent me away, and my boyfriend came and took over.

So patient, this man. Holding my hands the entire time, this man threw his board to the side and literally RAN down the side of a mountain, beside me, to catch me if I fell. And I did fall. And when you fall you’re like a little green army man lying on your back with your feet nailed to this goddamn platform, and you lay there flat, either on your back or your face and you cannot move. He’d pick me up from under my armpits, like you do a toddler who is tired of walking and says, “Daddy, up. Up.” That’s when it occurred to me that I totally should have brought my white helmet on this endeavor because then I would just be someone’s retarded sister bouncing down a mountain like a ping-pong ball, and not just a capable adult who SUCKS.

Here is the beautifully talented Captain, coming down the near-flat Beginner's Slope that I had just spent 45 minutes sliding down on my bottom. After walking me down this hill and planting me safely to the side, he had to go back up again and retrieve his board. What a man.

At the end of the day, I had newfound optimism for my boarding skills, because while I still sucked, I sucked slightly less than I had at ten that morning. I want to do it again!

We went home and I was in real pain, not so much from over exerting muscles that never get used, but more from real injury that involved tendons, bones and kneecaps going places they aren’t supposed to go. On my right leg, it looked like I had two kneecaps, one on top of the other, with the top one being purple and shifted sideways in an unnatural way. And my ass…was bruised. Ah.

This is my left butt cheek, and I was tickled to see that my bruise looks like a woman’s eye, with long eyelashes. MY ASS CAN SEE YOU.

Days earlier, I had promised the Cap’n that: “On Sunday, after we snowboard, I will lie around in sexy underwear while we read the paper and drink wine.” It’s a ritual now, every Sunday = Tribune, red wine, fireplace, pillows.

This time though, all I could manage was to lie on the floor stiff as a board and make low moaning noises, while he cooked us dinner and walked around like a normal person.

We went to bed and I squeaked out: “Baby, I’m wearing sexy underwear…But I’m just too sore…to be sexy. Ok?”

There was a pause and then he said, “But…” with a voice that said Oh shucks, I was really looking forward to some ass tonight.

“Ok baby, say no more.”

*Hop on Pop*

This man had taken me snowboarding, carried me down a mountain, bought me beautiful underwear, made me barbequed chicken, gave me a full body massage, got me drunk on wine, and essentially waited on me hand and foot, all the while praising my snowboarding skills. How could I not?

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January 28, 2007