I’m on Vacation! And a Segregationist!

by Marinka on March 24, 2009

My fears:

1. Death
2. Breaking every (oh hell, any) bone in my body
3. Seeing my children hurt
4. Crowds
5. Heights (specifically, ski lifts)

So clearly the first order of business on vacation should be for me to go skiing with papa and my children. Husbandrinka was enjoying a cartlige tear, that lucky bastard, so he couldn’t come with us.


The last time that I’d skied was in 1995. I still have the ski suit, a one-piece number that is very Austin Powers (I’ve never seen the movie, so I’m using Austin Powers to mean “dated loser”). So papa says, “you can wear your old suit” and I say “of course I can’t wear my old ski suit. The last time that I had it on, I was twenty five years old and had a body of an eighteen year old. Now I’m forty one with a Haagen Dasz addiction and a body of a Jerry Springer guest.” But he won’t back down, and then mama gets in the mix and says “I wearing that ski outfit other day, it fit me and I am in sixties.” So I avoid the obvious question of why my non-skiing mama was wearing my ski suit and go into my room to wrestle with the one piece monster. I get it up over my hips and as long as I don’t inhale, and don’t mind walking around with my zipper open for full frontal ventilation, I’m fine. The problem arises when I try to pull the suit over to upper torso. Of course “problem” is not in my vocabulary because my glass half full (of shit) personality absolutely forbids it, so I tie the suit arms around my waist, and parade into the living room.
“You were right, it fits!”
“I knew it!” mama cries before she sees me, “I knew you didn’t gain as much weight as I thought you did.” And then she sees me and her expression changes into something that I’m fairly certain that Hitchkock wanted to elicit from Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower scene. “My God,” she gasps, “what happened to you?” Which I don’t know about you, but that’s the kind of start to a vacation that makes me want to run screaming and fall at my boss’ feet so as to avoid vacationing again.
“I tell you what happened to her,” papa ministers from the couch. “It is called caloric intoxication and the whole coutry is suffering.”
I am, of course, looking for a noose at this point.
“What is in that pocket?” mama points to the buldge on my side.
“That is called fat,” my father preaches to the chorus.
“Oh, please,” I reach into my pocket and dangle the moth-eater packets in front of them.
“This is tragedy” my parents wail as I fill my sagging pockets with rocks and walk towards the pond.

The Day:

I am completely terrified of dying.
And of breaking something/everything.
I’m afraid of getting stuck on a ski lift.
I’m afraid of the ski lift being weighed down by my ass, and plunging down.
Oh yeah, I’m also afraid of my children getting hurt.
I look smoking hot as a walking sausage in mama’s ski pants.
I buy a ski lift ticket and ask if I can get a paramedic to come up with me.
The cheap-ass antisemites don’t offer this service.
I ski, I don’t die.
I don’t even fall.
I’m feeling very gold medalist.
My seven year old son tells me that I do too much pizza and not enough french fries.
I assume that he’s dropping junior acid and plan to have The Talk with him, but my daughter then explains that “pizza”=snow plowing and french fries=parallel skiing.
My seven year old son asks me why I’m such a slow poke.
I start to explain but he zooms by and I am talking to myself.
My daughter tells me that she’s sick of the baby slopes and wants to do a more fun run.
I tell her that at my age, I shouldn’t take too many risks.
Sixty three year old papa agrees to take my daughter on an more advanced slope.
I start to relax and enjoy my run.
Something rushes past me.
What the fuck is that?
Snow boarders? When I skied last, we didn’t know what snow boarders.
My knees hurt just looking at them.
“It’s a thrill” one of them tell me as we wait for the lift.
I can’t believe that they’re allowed to take the lift with the normal skiers.
It’s called a ski lift, not a snow boarding lift.
As a matter of fact, the whole mountain is a ski mountain, not a snow boarding mountain.
And you know what would be a bigger thrill yet?
If they snow boarded with a stick of dynamite in their mouth,
And a game of Russian Roulette waiting for them at the foot of the mountain.
Hell, have bareback sex with dubious strangers, it’s all the rage.
By my fifth run, I’m a segregationist. I plan to devote my life to making sure that skiers and and snow boarders have different mountains to ski/snow board down.
But first, I must have some hot chocolate. Irishized, preferably.

One year ago ...

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