The Only Good Skis Are Brew-Skis

February 25, 2011

Later this afternoon, the missus and I are setting off with a few friends on a ski trip.

Only I don’t ski.

Oh, I’ve worn skis, sure. I’ve slapped them onto my feet, taken a chair lift to the top of a gently-inclined bunny slope and let gravity have its way with me. But at no time did any of my falling, flailing, stumbling, tripping, faceplanting, leg wrenching or furious cursing resemble ‘skiing’ in the slightest.

(I believe I may have briefly qualified as a mogul when a pack of eight year olds took turns jumping my flattened carcass splayed on the middle of a hill. But at best, that makes me a ‘ski-ee’, not so much a ski-er’.)

“Taking up snowboarding because you can’t ski is like climbing Everest because you fell off a Stairmaster.”

This wasn’t a one-time deal, mind you. I gave skiing several good shots over the course of a few years, and each time spent more time face-down in snow than on my feet and ‘shushing’. I’ve sucked down more fresh powder than Gary Busey on a weeklong Thai bender. I know when I’m licked. And skiing’s spittle is still dripping off my socks, several winters later. So I’m done. Kaput. Sworn it off.

(In an inexplicable spasm of poor judgment — which is to say, spousal arm twisting — I decided a couple of years ago to try snowboarding instead. Because this is the sort of thing that idiots do.

Taking up snowboarding because you can’t ski is like climbing Everest because you fell off a Stairmaster. I still spent the day making involuntary snow angels, but at a much higher rate of speed, and with my feet basically shackled together. There’s a reason that ‘snowboarding’ and ‘waterboarding’ are such similar words.)

So, it’s a ‘ski trip’ for everyone else. For me, it’s a ‘sleep late, build a fire, booze it up and treat the wounded trip’. Frankly, I like the sound of mine better. Though it might be tougher to get printed on a T-shirt.

I may tinker with some other winter pastimes while I’m there — snowshoeing, flagpole licking, writing my name in the snow, the usual — but I have zero plans to slap overgrown toothpicks on my feet, plummet down a hill, or ride in a scary open one-way ferris wheel car. I’m parking my ass in the ‘beer chalet’ tonight, and staying in close proximity to the suds fridge until it’s time to mosey home on Sunday.

And if that plan ends up with me face down in the snow again… well, at least this time maybe I’ll enjoy the fall a little more. When it comes to skiing, I’d call that progress.