I Guess That’s Why They Call it “The Blues.”

The thing is, I forgot to put on my pants. 

This oversight, in context, may be understandable. Or, I may be experiencing early onset of a degenerative condition, so I’d better make haste and get this story told. While I remember it.

First, a question: Have you considered the one skill you wish you could be blessed with instantaneously? For me, it was always figure skating. Not Olympic level, no, even though this is make believe, it doesn’t feel right to be able to magically best an athlete who invested their life on an ice rink. Speaking multiple languages, a close second wish, seems fairer.

The one skill I didn’t expect to acquire in middle age was skiing. Also, I didn’t think skill was required for basic skiing. The last time I’d been was as a teenager in Grossinger’s decades before. Up the bunny hill, down the T-Bar, it was sledding while standing and less intimidating than instructional swim in camp.

So when my family planned the ski trip, it wasn’t on my list of “Things That Scare the Shit Out of Me” like Wednesday carpool, or the school nurse lice notification letter, or the growing pile of essays that needed to be graded, I went with the flow, just happy to have one activity, just one, that I could enjoy participating in with my no-longer baby boys, who would put down the footballs and soccer balls and game cube controllers, and actually do something with mom.

The first time I fell, it was getting off the lift. I had the balance of a woman who just slammed six tequilas with none of the benefits. “Think I’m done here.” I announced, after being propped back up by a team of superhero regular people. “I’ll just get back on the lift going down.”

I reached for a seat —-

“No” the attendant said. “It’s one way only.”

“Well, then” I explained. “Seems we have a problem.”

“Just come with me down the mountain,” my husband said. “See, watch the kids.” And there they went, like birds skimming the water’s edge, unaware that JAWS lurked below. 

“No can do.” I said,

”You don’t actually have a choice.”

“Actually, I do.” I said, sooner seeing a future as frozen Lot’s wife than attempting that unholy mountain. 

“Come on,”  he bullied  said. “Just ski to me.”

“Fine.” I moved forward and my body slipped from under me.  I executed the triple axel I’d always dreamed of and ended up a pretzel of legs and poles, my butt in the air.

“Look here, lady’s playing Twister in the snow.” Some snowboarder ass, the first of many of that sort I’d later encounter, said to his mate.

I had no actual idea how to move. Everything seemed pinned by ice and resistance was futile. By then my sister and brother in law, both experienced skiers came off the lift and saw me in this butt up position, and waited. 

“Jen?”

“Yep.”

“Need some help?”

“Nope.” I said, emphatically. “I got this.”

“You sure?” 

“Never been surer.” 

I didn’t look up but I imagine the looks they exchanged as they skied to the precipice and left me to deal with my pretzelhood.

“Jen, if you don’t want my help, we’re going to start going down,” my husband said. “Is that ok? Or do you want me to wait?”

I want ski patrol now, while I still have a pulse, I prayed, but shooed him off, as I really I didn’t want to be, couldn’t imagine being, more humiliated than I was at that moment. 

As anyone who’s given birth once can attest, never mind four times, there is little mortification a woman hasn’t survived, yet there was something about this that unglued my patched together midlife self-esteem, that reflection of ourselves we insist on even as our thighs expand and our jowls begin their descent. 

I would get through this. I would figure out which leg needed to go where and how the heck to move parts of my body that seemed to be completely disconnected to my motor system.

Time passed along with hoards of lookie-loos and not interesteds. The flames of shame kept icicles from forming out of my tears. 

“Hi mom,” my 9-year-old said, already back on the hill for another run. “Need help?”

“Please,” I said, as he broke the pride spell.

He advised me to take off my skis and place my body in a frog like position, rising slowly facing uphill. He told me how to align my skis, to kick the snow off my boots, and dig in the poles for balance as I reattached the skis, parallel to the mountain, edges in. 

This is the best advice I have ever received in my life. 

“Thanks, honey,” I said. 

“Want me to ski down with you?”

There was no way in hell I was going to move. 

“No, enjoy, go ahead…”

“Are you coming?” 

“Not yet.”

He, as he always does, called out my bullshit.

“You can’t just stay here mom. You have to get down. Follow my tracks.” He slid across to the other side of the mountain and motioned me to join him.

“Jack.” I said, to myself. “Not today.”

He kept beckoning me, his gloved hands animated, without a doubt that I could do this. 

That blue goggled boy who I watched crawl, lift himself up, grasping anything until he could walk was now encouraging me to defy the safety of stillness and meet him on the other side. 

I will die, I thought. But I will do this. 

It started out ok. I moved slowly, but soon lost control and fell as I tried to stop. Once again, Jack guided me through until I was standing. In my boots. I refused to put the skis back on. 

I would walk down. Or slide on my butt. 

In the end, I put the skis back on and, about an hour later, made it down the hill. I had both a migraine and ten patents for “new ways to fall.” But I did it. 

Along the way there were tears. My husband passed me many with his sister and her husband and bawling like a tragic blue Jiffy pop infant, I shooed them off, cursing nature, cursing the snowboarders who I held especially responsible for my frequent falls, cursing Byron, Emerson, Whitman, and Frost and anyone who blatantly mislead me into thinking nature an ally.

But, I did it. 

Once. 

Back in the lodge, I met up with friends who told me they were heading home and offered me a ride, which I accepted. No way was I going back on the mountain and staying overnight in a motel just to hang out in the lodge again tomorrow. 

And that would be the end of this story, except it didn’t happen that way. 

I stayed. 

I declined the offer, and went back up the lift. I knew that once I went up, I would have to come back down. It would be messy; indeed it was. But I had left my comfort zone and that felt unexpectedly cool.

____

Eleven years a couple of lessons, and many epic falls later, I am queen of the greens. I’m even comfortable on blue trails, mostly, but have no interest in blacks. (I’ve accidentally ended up on a rogue black, and I find that regular life holds enough fear for me — “Did my child drive home safely? Is that driver going to stop at the intersection? Is that mammogram going to be negative?” — that I don’t need to seek out terror. Sailing on the blues or greens is freedom; anxiety is my mind prison and skiing unshackles me.

Last year, one of my last trips pre Covid-19, was to Park City. Beautiful, frozen, and absolutely buzzing with clueless masses who had no idea what would happen two months later. It was challenging — many of the runs were longer and more snow-packed than the North Eastern ice trails I was used to. But I acclimated, and was soon in the zone. 

Until I fell off a lift. 

My timing was a second off; I didn’t make contact with the seat. I dangled a bit before plunging downward. Aside from the not-unfamiliar humiliation, I was fine. But, I decided to brood a little in the suite, waiting for my family, who were halfway up the mountain, and would probably not be down until sunset. 

It was noon. I took my time luxuriating in the bath, reading, checking up on social media. Eventually, I decided to go back up the lift. Mindfully, I redressed, layer upon layer, remembering my boots, hand warmers, gloves, skis, polls, and the other million things one must bring in order to let gravity have its way, in comfort. 

I was already settled on to the lift when the chill hit me. My legs were freezing. 

Oh.

My.

G-d.

I wasn’t wearing pants. 

How could I forget my pants? I had the Hot Chili’s so it could have been worse, but not much worse, if you ask my kids.

I had no pants and was making my way up a miles long trail.

Signs indicated a midway stop. YES! Well, of course I was going to get off there and ski down because I had No. Pants. On.

At that magic moment, I lifted the bar and then skied off the to the left where the sign I had missed a moment before revealed itself:

Well, isn’t that on brand for the day?

Two hours later, soaked and frozen to my core, I stood by the door in front of my family, who stared at me with a spectrum of horrified to amused expressions. What should have taken a person 10 minutes to ski took me two hours because of terrifying moguls. Every time I got the skis back on, I knocked into a hill and off they flew. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Are you looking for a moral to this story? There is none. This is an ode to middle age. Actually, it is a farewell to middle age, and a hello to the AARP years. Yes, I’ve been getting targeted ads from them, and for overactive bladder studies, when what I really need is an app that prevents me from leaving the house unless I’m dressed.

Which, for the past year, has a been a non-issue. 

For when I do go out, it isn’t the pants I can’t forget. It’s the other blue. The one-sided blue that is more important than anything I’ve worn to date.

Because this is so much worse than anything waiting on the top of a mountain.