Sunday, January 6, 2013

I Ski, Therefore....Well, Nothing Really



I have an unusual assortment of parents, but for this post, it is my biological parents that are relevant.  My parents got divorced when I was somewhere around 18 months old, and although they may think they are polar opposites, I see a lot of similarities between them. Here are a few of note:
  
1. Both remarried women named Patricia
2. Both prefer reading over watching TV
3. Both love to cross country ski

Of the three, it is #3 which is relevant to today's story.

As a child, my siblings and I spent part of the year with our mothers and part of the year with our father. At several times in my childhood, both parental units would take me cross country skiing.

My experience of cross country skiing as a child went something like this:

Mother or Father: "Come on, kids, let's go cross country skiing!"
Me: "Do I Haaaaaaaave to??" said in my best put-upon, whiney child voice.

Skis were put on.  My body would get too hot and my fingers would get too cold. My nose would run. I would fall over. The parent in question would insist I could get up on my own. I would insist I could not. Parental unit would ski away. I would eventually get up and ski after them, and fall yet again.

In short, cross country skiing was not my favorite activity. I never understood why it was considered superior to snowshoes.

Fast forward to yesterday, when a friend obtained cross country skis and invited me to go try them out. The boys were at their father's, so I actually could go do an activity without having to listen to them whine and nag me the way I did my parents (I passed on my great skill in whining to both my boys). I also only needed to bundle one person, and in the winter, this is kind of crucial.

I wore tights and long underwear and thermal lined pants, giving me the svelte silhouette of a skiing moose. I got too hot. My nose ran. I did not fall, but I learned that although I am capable of cross country skiing, I am still baffled as to why anyone would do it. 

I did not swish. I did not glide effortlessly. I floundered around and went in a nice big loop, cutting my own trail through 6 inches of snow. 

Yes, I raised my heart rate, but I did not even achieve any gratifying sore muscles to feel like I accomplished anything. The only thing I got out of it was a blog post and a photo-op. So why, then, do I feel like today I need to go back out there and try it again? Simple.  I bought ski boots. Ski boots must be worn at least twice before being listed on ebay. It's some sort of law or something.

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