I don’t sleep these days. You know why? Because I’m a stomach sleeper and I can’t bear pressure on my shoulder. Big deal, I know, first world problem. Except I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in three months. You know what they say about sleep deprivation, right? It makes people wacky. It makes certain 40-something women bonkers enough to write blog posts about it.
I tell everyone this so forgive me for being repetitive, but you signed up for this too so, this is kinda your fault. Also, I like telling stories, even at my own expense.
So the year: 1999. My boyfriend and I, mega-broke, maneuver our way upstate to a friend’s timeshare for the weekend. There is no money for ski gear (and there never will be, I fear, after 20+ years in publishing), so we bundle up in our best faux gear (heavy hooded coats) and head to what I now realize is a truly awful excuse for a ski slope. If I could remember the name, I’d tell you, just so you could google it and find out it got closed down for breaking 38 safety laws.
Anyhoo, young love, blah blah, I’m convinced this is one of many adventures to come because I’m going to marry this dude. His lack of skiing experience doesn’t bother me because I’ve been skiing…TWICE. I’m basically an Olympian. Actually, my first time skiing one of my frat brothers (who I’d also name if possible because NOT COOL, bruh) convinced me I could absolutely handle a black diamond. What came next was a near-death experience. This is not a joke. I was speeding toward a cliff–I guess at black diamond level they’re all “Eff gates!” and I needed to turn right or I was absolutely going to die. My life didn’t flash before my eyes; I got hyper focused, though, felt as if I were traveling in slo-mo, and although I’d taken all of one lesson on the slopes, was able to make a right turn before I zipped to my death Wile E. Coyote style. And then I had a breakdown, but that’s not important.
Back to 1999. I am pretty smug because–experience. I have a ton of friends who ski seriously and I was posing like I was one of those people who travel to Vail every year. Presumably not in a bulky winter jacket and jeans, but still. We make it down the slope once, completely intact. Skiing is such a rush when done well. I scoff at others passing us by in leather (leather!) jackets. Poor people, cute.
Next go round, we’re on the lift. I have no fear of heights and wished the ride up was a bit longer, but as we’re at a pretty crap lodge–which had no lodge, by the way, no fireplace, no cute hot drinks–the ride up is pretty quick. In my mind’s eye the hill was about 10 feet high, actually. At this point, idiot boyfriend (IB) starts getting a lil rocky. Literally rocking in the lift. He says he’s fine, but then it’s our turn to jump off what, a foot? Two?–he loses his cool hard and falls out. I can barely register my concern/surprise/laughter because IB grabs me intuitively to stop his Hans Gruber-esque fall. (RIP Alan Rickman.)
This black man took me down with him. Yes, he did.