About to Ski-Daddle

First, my apologies for the punny title -- I have no excuse... Sometimes they seep out.
Second, let me explain this post: I wrote it right before leaving for the ski trip and I guess in the "Where's my other ski glove?" and the "Have you packed the SPF 500?" frenzy, I never actually posted it. So, belatedly, here it is:

We signed up for a ski-trip pretty much the instant we arrived in Belgium. The trip is through Andrew’s work, and I figured it was a good way to meet people. We leave this afternoon on a bus filled with Andrew’s colleagues and I’m now nervous. There are several reasons for this:

I’m concerned that the entire tour group will be filled with families. Andrew and I will then be surrounded by screaming kids who get snow between their wrist and their mitten, fall down, fall asleep, fail to find Anna Nicole Smith’s life fascinating and thrust incomprehensible, squiggly-lined pictures at me that look nothing like the “Trees” that they claim to represent. What’s more, their parents will be so exhausted from digging the snow out from between their children’s wrist and mitten; picking them up when they fall down and interpreting their squiggly-lined drawings, that they will not want to drink wine, sit by the fire and gossip about Anna Nicole Smith, either.

I’m concerned that the entire tour group will be filled with retired ex-military types who will bark orders at us, demand that I get a GI Jane crew cut and make me drop and give them twenty before stopping for a hot chocolate.

I’m concerned that the entire tour group will be filled with really, really good skiers who are competitive on the slopes and will shush passed me, looking tall, elegant and composed, while I blunder along doing a modified snow plough and terrifying angel-faced Italian children with my crazed hair, and consistently red nose.

I’m concerned that I will be mocked for my lousy skis. This concern is rooted in a childhood where my thrifty father bought all of our sporting equipment used, and then recycled it through each child. As the fourth kid, this meant that I got thrice-hand-me-down skis that were used to begin with. If ski boots were too big, we were told to keep adding socks until they fit.

My father once drilled downhill bindings into cross country skis and told me they were fine. I got up to the top of the mountain, pointed the skis straight down the hill, and DIDN’T BUDGE. In my memories, the “Hah Hah” kid from the Simpsons skied past me, pointing and laughing.

Long after the brakes on downhill skis had been modified, I still had the old fashioned bindings, which were cords that tied around your ankles. Sure, if you fell and your ski came off, this prevented it from zooming dangerously down the hill. Instead, the ski helpfully banged against your body as you tumbled down the mountain. Ever got a ski-tip in the eye? It hurts.

Honestly, the Tector children were like the Flintstones of the ski hill: while everyone else Jetson-ed around us with rocket powered (or at least fiberglass) equipment, we wobbled along with wooden skis and forty-five pairs of socks.

My angst about this impending trip is obviously deep and well-founded.

Oh well, it can only be better than my neurotic imaginings, right?

Was it better than Amy's neurotic imaginings or was it in fact much, much worse? Or am I leading you on with hints of impending disaster to entice you into continuing to read this blog? Tune in next time to find out!