So Murphy (I’ll get a new nickname, I just need some time) e-mailed me the same night that Ann called me. This is a good sign, very non-TM like. We’ve e-mailed back and forth a few times, I’ve used some of my funniest lines and after only a few e-mails he’s asked me out to lunch on Monday. He left to go to NYC this afternoon and I think gets back on Sunday. Again, very prompt. I like it. So, we’ll see what happens. I will of course keep you, my 5 readers informed.
In looking through his MySpace page (yes yes I’m 30 and I have a MySpace page and yes yes, I’m impressed that he asked to be my ‘friend’ before I even responded to his first e-mail) I noticed that it appears he likes to snow ski. Cue ominous music. Have I even told you my one and only skiing story? No? Let me do so right now. warning...long story ahead
I realize that with all these crazy mishap stories I am painting a picture of a girl who’s a bit crazy, very clumsy, complains a lot and doesn’t like to do adventurous things. Really, only parts of that statement are true. I won’t tell you which ones, we’ll just keep them a secret.
Anyway, growing up I was not one of the fortunate kids who got to go skiing. Skiing was expensive and that just wasn’t on the necessity list. However, a year or so after I started working I got the opportunity to go. Ann (yes, the girl who just hooked me up with Murphy) and I went with her current boyfriend (now husband) and her ex boyfriend. Don’t ask me how this group got put together or why I was the one without the boy to bring along, that’s just the way it ended up.
First came the shopping. Considering I was a fairly new professional, I didn’t have a lot of dough to spend on ski clothes. Instead of modeling myself after the cute ski bunnies that I saw on the slopes while we were there, I more accurately represented a cross between an abominable snowman and a puffalump. I was not cute. In fact, I think I looked a little butchy. My clothes were kinda boy colors. Anyway, this is not important.
What is important is how skiing turned into such a disaster much like Mexico. First we get to Colorado (by plane). Why do I start so far back at the beginning? Because that’s where the fun begins. So we land and are headed toward Breckenridge by rental car. First we are going to meet one of Ann’s friends for lunch who I also knew as an acquaintance when I was a kid. We drive and drive and drive and finally arrive at the pizza place. About halfway though lunch I don’t feel so hot.
Editors note: If you are in any way attracted to me you should probably stop reading this post now.
Crickets chirping…alright, I see I’ve lost no readers, let’s move on.
So I don’t feel so hot. More accurately, I feel like Violet Beauregarde from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I was filling up with gas like a Macy’s Parade balloon.
I couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. Instead of visiting I was breaking out in a cold sweat and going upstairs to the bathroom that was heated to 250 degrees Fahrenheit every 10 minutes. Not one of my sexiest moments. I think they call this the start of altitude sickness, no?
We finally hit the road again and continue our accent to hell. With each passing mile I was getting more and more uncomfortable. I was pretty sure if someone were to poke me with a pin I would have popped. Seriously. And it didn’t go away until WE LEFT Colorado. So that was that. I was very close with the other three people by the end of the trip.
So a little gas doesn’t sound so bad, right? I guess if that was it then I would have been okay. But then we got to skiing. Ann’s husband Josh and I had never been and Ann and Andy were pros so Josh and I decided to take a half day lesson. All goes well. I think I only fell once. I got this skiing thing down pat. I ski the greens the rest of the day (more like I float down the mountain with my gassy body) and I actually start to think it’s a bit boring. But I’m not daring enough to try a blue. Get me on an incline of more than 10 degrees and I’m stiff as a board. I freak out. So I took it slow.
The next day Ann and Andy wanted us all to ski together so they said they would step down 5 gazillion levels and ski a green with us first thing in the morning. Fine and dandy. So we get to the lift area and we line up the four of us across. Then as the lift comes around we all shuffle into place. Guess who didn’t shuffle fast enough. That’s right, I missed that chair. No problem, I’ll just get on the next one. So I shuffle faster and try to get in the middle of the very long chair. I figure I’m in a good position so I sit down. Really sit down. And the chair, yeah, it’s not so much right behind me. So effectively I sit on the edge of the chair so it swings backward, I fall on the ground and the chair keeps moving forward. I am now being dragged by the lift. I am sweating in the snow I am so embarrassed. The 16 year guy running the lift stops it and attempts to help my fat ass up. He weighs about 125 pound and I weigh…more than that. Anyway, my skis are crossed, my cap is falling over my eyes, there’s a 16year old trying to pull me to my feet and my friends are looking back at me with a mix of awe, pity, humor and disgust. They sooo do not know me at this point.
After getting untangled and back on the lift (did people clap for me? I can’t remember) I proceeded up the mountain. And up. And up. And up. After what seemed like 30 minutes I began to surmise that I was not in Kansas anymore. I was going a lot higher than I anticipated. We reach the summit. Of Mount freakin Everest. It’s a blue. A BLUE! Now I know to you experienced skiers this is nothing. You are laughing at my horror. I don’t care. To me, looking down this mountain was like looking down the Grand Canyon. It was like a 90 degree angle. Shit.
All I know how to do at this point in my skiing career is weave back and forth and stop by snow plowing. I’m so freaked out that I don’t start out well and it gets worse from there. I fall, continue to slide down the mountain, get snow up my butch looking jacket. I get up. I fall, continue to slide down the mount….you get the picture. It got to the point where I couldn’t even stand up. I was so exhausted (and gassy). So I did what any girl would do. I start to cry. And I say fuck skis, take them off and start walking down the mountain. Ann is coming after me being very patient and trying to get me back on the skis. Snow patrol (not the band) comes snowmobiling up and asks if I need help. I want to scream ‘yes you fucktard, I want a ride down this Godforsaken mountain’. Instead I play the part of skiing martyr and say I’m fine thank you. And thank you for asking. And I smile. I’m so polite. Anyway, Ann finally gets me down the mountain. By that time I am shaking not from fear but from the fact that my muscles are pure jello. I say screw skiing for the rest of the day, go back to the room, change and walk in to town to go shopping by myself. At least I’m a courteous train wreck, I didn’t make anyone else stop.
I don’t even remember the rest of the trip, those were certainly the highlights. So if Murphy asks me to go skiing at some point, what should I say? No, I’m sorry, I’m a gassy pansy ass and won’t be able to go? Nope, I’ll say “sure! That sounds like a lot of fun!” while in my head I’m screaming ‘Nooooooooo!’. See. Polite. Really it’s that I’m willing to try anything at least twice before I decide it’s not for me. Do you like how I’m planning a ski trip with a man I have yet to meet? Watch it, I may start picking out freakin china patterns at any moment. Kidding!!
In looking through his MySpace page (yes yes I’m 30 and I have a MySpace page and yes yes, I’m impressed that he asked to be my ‘friend’ before I even responded to his first e-mail) I noticed that it appears he likes to snow ski. Cue ominous music. Have I even told you my one and only skiing story? No? Let me do so right now. warning...long story ahead
I realize that with all these crazy mishap stories I am painting a picture of a girl who’s a bit crazy, very clumsy, complains a lot and doesn’t like to do adventurous things. Really, only parts of that statement are true. I won’t tell you which ones, we’ll just keep them a secret.
Anyway, growing up I was not one of the fortunate kids who got to go skiing. Skiing was expensive and that just wasn’t on the necessity list. However, a year or so after I started working I got the opportunity to go. Ann (yes, the girl who just hooked me up with Murphy) and I went with her current boyfriend (now husband) and her ex boyfriend. Don’t ask me how this group got put together or why I was the one without the boy to bring along, that’s just the way it ended up.
First came the shopping. Considering I was a fairly new professional, I didn’t have a lot of dough to spend on ski clothes. Instead of modeling myself after the cute ski bunnies that I saw on the slopes while we were there, I more accurately represented a cross between an abominable snowman and a puffalump. I was not cute. In fact, I think I looked a little butchy. My clothes were kinda boy colors. Anyway, this is not important.
What is important is how skiing turned into such a disaster much like Mexico. First we get to Colorado (by plane). Why do I start so far back at the beginning? Because that’s where the fun begins. So we land and are headed toward Breckenridge by rental car. First we are going to meet one of Ann’s friends for lunch who I also knew as an acquaintance when I was a kid. We drive and drive and drive and finally arrive at the pizza place. About halfway though lunch I don’t feel so hot.
Editors note: If you are in any way attracted to me you should probably stop reading this post now.
Crickets chirping…alright, I see I’ve lost no readers, let’s move on.
So I don’t feel so hot. More accurately, I feel like Violet Beauregarde from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I was filling up with gas like a Macy’s Parade balloon.
I couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. Instead of visiting I was breaking out in a cold sweat and going upstairs to the bathroom that was heated to 250 degrees Fahrenheit every 10 minutes. Not one of my sexiest moments. I think they call this the start of altitude sickness, no?
We finally hit the road again and continue our accent to hell. With each passing mile I was getting more and more uncomfortable. I was pretty sure if someone were to poke me with a pin I would have popped. Seriously. And it didn’t go away until WE LEFT Colorado. So that was that. I was very close with the other three people by the end of the trip.
So a little gas doesn’t sound so bad, right? I guess if that was it then I would have been okay. But then we got to skiing. Ann’s husband Josh and I had never been and Ann and Andy were pros so Josh and I decided to take a half day lesson. All goes well. I think I only fell once. I got this skiing thing down pat. I ski the greens the rest of the day (more like I float down the mountain with my gassy body) and I actually start to think it’s a bit boring. But I’m not daring enough to try a blue. Get me on an incline of more than 10 degrees and I’m stiff as a board. I freak out. So I took it slow.
The next day Ann and Andy wanted us all to ski together so they said they would step down 5 gazillion levels and ski a green with us first thing in the morning. Fine and dandy. So we get to the lift area and we line up the four of us across. Then as the lift comes around we all shuffle into place. Guess who didn’t shuffle fast enough. That’s right, I missed that chair. No problem, I’ll just get on the next one. So I shuffle faster and try to get in the middle of the very long chair. I figure I’m in a good position so I sit down. Really sit down. And the chair, yeah, it’s not so much right behind me. So effectively I sit on the edge of the chair so it swings backward, I fall on the ground and the chair keeps moving forward. I am now being dragged by the lift. I am sweating in the snow I am so embarrassed. The 16 year guy running the lift stops it and attempts to help my fat ass up. He weighs about 125 pound and I weigh…more than that. Anyway, my skis are crossed, my cap is falling over my eyes, there’s a 16year old trying to pull me to my feet and my friends are looking back at me with a mix of awe, pity, humor and disgust. They sooo do not know me at this point.
After getting untangled and back on the lift (did people clap for me? I can’t remember) I proceeded up the mountain. And up. And up. And up. After what seemed like 30 minutes I began to surmise that I was not in Kansas anymore. I was going a lot higher than I anticipated. We reach the summit. Of Mount freakin Everest. It’s a blue. A BLUE! Now I know to you experienced skiers this is nothing. You are laughing at my horror. I don’t care. To me, looking down this mountain was like looking down the Grand Canyon. It was like a 90 degree angle. Shit.
All I know how to do at this point in my skiing career is weave back and forth and stop by snow plowing. I’m so freaked out that I don’t start out well and it gets worse from there. I fall, continue to slide down the mountain, get snow up my butch looking jacket. I get up. I fall, continue to slide down the mount….you get the picture. It got to the point where I couldn’t even stand up. I was so exhausted (and gassy). So I did what any girl would do. I start to cry. And I say fuck skis, take them off and start walking down the mountain. Ann is coming after me being very patient and trying to get me back on the skis. Snow patrol (not the band) comes snowmobiling up and asks if I need help. I want to scream ‘yes you fucktard, I want a ride down this Godforsaken mountain’. Instead I play the part of skiing martyr and say I’m fine thank you. And thank you for asking. And I smile. I’m so polite. Anyway, Ann finally gets me down the mountain. By that time I am shaking not from fear but from the fact that my muscles are pure jello. I say screw skiing for the rest of the day, go back to the room, change and walk in to town to go shopping by myself. At least I’m a courteous train wreck, I didn’t make anyone else stop.
I don’t even remember the rest of the trip, those were certainly the highlights. So if Murphy asks me to go skiing at some point, what should I say? No, I’m sorry, I’m a gassy pansy ass and won’t be able to go? Nope, I’ll say “sure! That sounds like a lot of fun!” while in my head I’m screaming ‘Nooooooooo!’. See. Polite. Really it’s that I’m willing to try anything at least twice before I decide it’s not for me. Do you like how I’m planning a ski trip with a man I have yet to meet? Watch it, I may start picking out freakin china patterns at any moment. Kidding!!
Champagne wishes and Violet Beauregarde dreams
5 comments:
Super funny story.
I have been to the snow a few times, but haven't gotten the whole altitude sickness deal. I can see why that would be a bummer
LOL Megan! Seriously my kids just came in to see what I was laughing at. But I'm not really laughing at you, I'm laughing b/c I could see myself doing the same thing.
It also reminded me of a story my mom used to tell about her 1 skiing experience. She got stuck on the lift too.
I've never skied before - I've always been afraid of doing something ridiculous and getting stuck on the lift. I've never gotten far enough past that fear to even worry about how I'd get down the mountain.
Maybe if things go well with Murphy you can go with him to the mountains, he can ski and you can shop or go to a spa. Then you'd just have to figure out the whole gassy issue.
OMG I am laughing SO hard.
Okay I doubt you will get gassy again. I just wouldnt eat pizza in high altitude. Take it from me. Anything that is baked in a higher altitude comes out wrong.
If MM (Murphy Man) is a true gentleman, when you tell him this story (minus the gassy bit, please), he will take you through bunny slopes slowly, until you get the hang of it.
PS: I hate those moving chairs too. Chairs should not move when you're trying to sit on them. Especially when you're balancing on horizontal poles.
I only skiied one time, when I was younger. I hate the altitude though, that's why I'm glad I don't have to see my ex's family up in Tahoe anymore (though other reasons too).
You know, just tell him that he can go skiing and you will sit in the lodge reading novels and drinking hot chocolate. Put your feets up, and add extra marshmallows, and you've got a fun vacation.
I'm crying I'm laughing so hard. Girl this is the making of short stories for sale at your local Barnes & Noble. Can you say rich Megan?
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