Everything after Christmas:

Well, we did Christmas and you saw the pictures of that. New Year’s was, to be diplomatic, was a mixed-bag. We decided to go skiing! At this point it is important to know that I have never been skiing. But every Winter Mary begs and begs and I always manage to put it off until the temperatures rise to something more survivable. This year the invitation come from somewhere outside, Megan’s co-worker Rachel who, for some reason, finds us not only tolerable but entirely preferable.

So, after work we all packed into the back of Rachel’s boyfriend’s car and headed off to, uh. Somewhere. It was 4 hours away, which was just as well. We all took little car naps and watched movies on our iPods and generally enjoyed the now entirely alien concept of a long car ride. I haven’t been inside of a car that’s not a cab for months, let alone packed into one for a long trip. I know my parents probably came to fear long trips and I sort of hated them at the time, but I missed them in some deep way. You hate the trip but it’s ultimately just a signifier for going somewhere, usually somewhere fun. A change of pace, at least.

We got there around 11 and almost immediately packed back into the car to catch some fireworks down at the resort. New Year’s! I spent much of the fireworks show huddled as deeply into my jacket as possible. I hate the cold. Hate the cold. Hate cold. We got back around 1 and Rachel’s other friends had arrived. And a moment of cross-cultural awareness began: On New Year’s, Koreans start cooking and drinking somewhere around 1:30 AM. By 3 AM, being good company, we are all severely drunk and completely stuffed. What meal is it when you start eating around 2 AM? Early breakfast?

Anyway: Up around 10:30 because checkout was at 11:15 and off to the mountain. Cross-Culture Awareness moment #2: Lots and lots and lots of Koreans go skiing on New Year’s Day. Now, I’ve never been skiing, but saddled in something like 3 coats, 2 pains of gloves, 3 pairs of pants, 2 scarves and a hat, holding a pair of skis and 2 poles and waiting something like 90 minutes to get up to the top of the mountain should have been a sign that things were maybe going a little off-schedule. I had managed to rouse a pretty good mood, though. Our prior sports attempts had actually gone pretty well: I became an avid bike rider and a reasonably good ice skater. I was hoping that skiing would turn out the same. I had a lot of time to mull this over. Going up the top I began to entertain a ridiculous fantasy of becoming a ski instructor. My imagined-prodigious talent would surely carry me through.

Let me sum up the experience thus: If it took 90 minutes to get up the mountain, it took us the remaining 3 hours of daylight to get down. I am not good at skiing. I will never be a ski instructor and, in fact, I will probably never be a skier, either.