Snow Day

Well. It snowed like mad last week, making it increasingly difficult to squeeze productivity out of my being. Temps hovered around 14 for a few days and the whole town went skiing. When it snows to such a degree, I often feel like God is giving me a white blanket to cuddle with, handing me a fluffy quilted duvet and a pat on the head, rushing me back to the mountains to ski for a few more months.

And then he’s like, “Just kidding! You don't know how to ski,” and just like that, ripping the duvet to shreds and leaving me cold and sleep-deprived, quite literally. It does not help that the rest of my immediate friend circle have skis that fall under the category of “Normalcy,” so they are handed what is called a “Snow Day,” and I am handed what is called “Snowboard from Your Locked in Feet Day.”

On Saturday, I attempted to run no less than four slopes – locked in my boots – while Divy screamed in sheer delight in his new skis because the runs he was skiing contained huge pockets of snow. Naturally. (Martin’s affinity for skiing cannot be matched; it is absolutely the deepest obsession I’ve come across in our days together, and there have been many, ranging from a mountain bike to a deep rich mug of coffee to the last bite of a tiramisu.)

So, needless to say. It’s been exciting. An entire week looking for skis and clothing is a twisted form of something I can’t yet describe. It’s a blissful torture – the kind where you die from laughing and smiling at the same time.

Let’s be clear: I am not the kind of woman who orchestrates extravagant activities for herself involving skis and boots and poles and look – it’s a skier! As much as I love skiing, the rage I feel when I spend 30 minutes renting up a stress-free “boot” to have my feetgo numb in 22.4 seconds is enough to fuel a small army. So, in the interest of keeping (my) peace, Martin spent an entire evening this week at REI helping mewith a ski season rental of fun, which is of the happiest variety possible. This went on for nearly an hour and then I could handle no more of the fun, so he let me try on the ski clothes he ordered for the rest of the evening while the guilty pit in my stomach says, “Stop! His brain is rotting!” but the frazzled part of my brain says, “Keep on! Your snowboarding is rotten!”

It’s the great battle of will: Saint Martin vs. Me. I’m not yet convinced who’s winning.

Anyway, we’re all back on the slopes on skis this week, and it feels good. I’m back at the shack, after skiing away for hours until it’s time to head home around four to put on my Mom hat. In the mean time, here are a few snapshots of our exit from 2019 (thank you, iPhone), loosely titled “Snow Day (Week) Guide for Us”:

(A rare and quiet afternoon. Turns out skiing keeps him tired for 4 hours, riding on the bus has a DET (Divy Entertainment Timeline) of 30 minutes. And yes I did play 20 rounds of I Spy this morning.)

(The secret to snow day tea is to add honey. Trust me on this one.)

(When the town closes, the mountain opens for skiing.)

(Thank you, Martin, for creating a magical winter.)

Wishing you happy days (and children) – warm or cold, wherever you are.

(Martin, the jolliest man I know, bought new skis for Divy and we took them for a spin on one of the first “snow” days. They very nearly melted the snow with their cuteness.)