My home mountain announced on FB yesterday that it had gotten cold enough to blow snow. Now they’re tantalizing all of us with photos and videos of the fan guns in Super Heavy Duty Blizzard Blowing Mode. It’s been YEARS since I last skied. Well, maybe MONTHS. But it’s been a lot of them. And even more WEEKS. 32 of them, come tomorrow.
There’s nothing greater than having the Ski Dream when it’s Ski Season. Possibly the Horse Dream will offer some competition, but since I’m still in New Mom stage, all of the dreams I have about horses involve freak accidents and emergency vet visits, if not worse. And since I’m still on the uphill battle to sit Huey’s gigantic trot, and I don’t know how to canter yet, I don’t have a framework for the Wind Flowing Through Hair As My Mighty Steed Thunders Across The Ground experience. So, right now, the pinnacle experience of Dream World is skis, mountains, and snow.
That said, there is also nothing worse than having the Ski Dream when it is not Ski Season. To glide effortlessly, carving grand slalom turns down the wide white expanse of the Ski Run of the Gods, all night, feeling the snow crunch under the edges, feeling the tingle of that crisp air on your 1 square inch of exposed skin, to marvel at the crystalline brightness of the snow-covered trees…and then to wake up with the covers too hot and a muggy summer morning, and to know that it is another six months, minimum, before you can even hope to hit the slopes again…this is one version of hell. I am sure there are others (see New Horse Mom Dreams, above).
Skiing is addictive. I have no taste for gambling. I can keep beer, wine, and really great Scotch in the house for months without downing it. I can have one and stop. The usual stuff that lights up the Addiction Centers in the brain leave me untouched.
But skiing? And horses? Forget it. You’ll have to catch me in April, when it’s too warm to ski and too muddy to ride. Then you can have my full attention again.
My husband speculates on what happens when my two addictions collide. He wants to know whether skiing or horses is going to come out on top.
I laugh. What he’s not realizing is that I could have one, maybe a whole string, of red-letter days where I ski until my feet are coming off, chow down on nachos and beer, and then go to the barn and play with my horse. Crushing the enemy, seeing them driven before you, and hearing the lamentation of their women? Screw Conan. That’s bupkus in comparison to skiing and horses.
Maybe I’ll spend the evening inspecting my ski gear. It hasn’t seen the light of day in 32 weeks.