I was reluctant for good reason when my husband Michael asked me to go snowboarding again this year: last year’s trip was a bit of a fiasco.
Perhaps it was because I hate being cold. Or perhaps it was because while Michael cruised effortlessly down blue runs in Aspen, Colorado the previous winter, I took bone-cracking falls down the bunny slope. From my perspective, the best part of the trip was spent après-ski in front of the lodge fireplace, with a bottle of champagne, trying my best to forget the humiliation and pain I felt from not learning how to snowboard.
Despite my painful experience on the slopes, Michael got a lot of joy out of the sport, and planning another trip this year meant a lot to him. As much as I didn’t want to go, after three years of marriage, I’ve learned that you can’t ask for what you’re not willing to give. So I proposed a deal. I would go on the trip on three conditions. First, I would trade in my old school marm ski jumper for cute snowboarding gear in my power colors. Second, while Michael snowboarded to his heart’s delight, I would take two full days of private lessons to help me master the basics. And third, for every hour I spent on the slopes, he would spend an hour with me learning my favorite sport: salsa dancing. He was eager to hit the slopes, so to my amazement, he agreed to my terms. We headed up to the closest green ski resort we could find—Northstar-at-Tahoe—and began our adventure.
As we neared the resort, the vista of green pines against the snow-capped white mountains immediately put me at ease. I stepped confidently out of Northstar’s biodiesel shuttle bus wearing a pair of eco-friendly 100 percent merino wool liners, sexy chocolate ski pants, and a sleek new down jacket (with a cool I-pod carrier!). Rocking my new duds, I felt like a second-grader on the first day of school and was actually excited to get out onto the slopes. But as I walked toward the lift, I saw was a sign announcing the “National Snowboarding Championship Competition”. My heart sank. The best snowboarders in the country would now be witness to my humiliation. On top of that, my instructor Eric was a twenty-one-year-old kid with long hair and a glass bong in his pocket. Hesitantly, I headed to the lift.
