The horizon at Mount Norquay in Alberta's beautiful Banff national Park was every bit as breathtaking as Husband hoped it would be for me. What I recall of it, that is, as it flickered past my eyes, upside-downside-upside-downside, while I cartwheeled down the "beginner's slope" at high speed, shedding skis, poles and dignity until thankfully coming to an abrupt halt on my face, two thirds of the way from the bottom of the "slow skiers ahead" hill. With nothing for it but to make the limp of shame to the gear shack on a twisted ankle, I dragged my poles and skis behind me the whole way because "I don't need help from anyone, thankyouverymuch!"
Husband felt frustrated for me, felt sad that his wonderful gift had caused me such distress and, worse, a very sore ankle. He thinks his gift was a failure and fears that I may not want to ski again.
He is wrong. Not about the day being a huge, awful, horrible, terrifying experience that left us both physically, mentally and emotionally drained and probably scarred for life. No, he's bang on about that, actually. And that was after only two attempts, and a lot of whispered, married-people-shouting-quietly-in-public, at the bunny hill.
No, he's wrong about the gift he gave me. Husband thinks he gave me a lift ticket to a ski hill in one of Canada's most beautiful national parks. What he actually gave me was a glimpse at his vision of me, of us, as Adventurers, Risk-Takers, as Doers of Things On the Weekends. I loved that look in his eyes that he had when I tried on my ski boots and tested my poles, then stared up-up-up at the nearly vertical, windswept starter hill upon which my 5 year old nephew learned to ski.
True, I nearly died a horrible death, as a mogul on children's run, but metaphorically I was given a vision of who we are, because Husband never gives up on me. And that's just about the best gift any one could wish for.
Apart from books. And pottery. And homemade fudge.
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| The yellow allegedly indicates the "slow" skiing area. We all know it's urine from the bladders of the weak and terrified. |
Husband felt frustrated for me, felt sad that his wonderful gift had caused me such distress and, worse, a very sore ankle. He thinks his gift was a failure and fears that I may not want to ski again.
He is wrong. Not about the day being a huge, awful, horrible, terrifying experience that left us both physically, mentally and emotionally drained and probably scarred for life. No, he's bang on about that, actually. And that was after only two attempts, and a lot of whispered, married-people-shouting-quietly-in-public, at the bunny hill.
No, he's wrong about the gift he gave me. Husband thinks he gave me a lift ticket to a ski hill in one of Canada's most beautiful national parks. What he actually gave me was a glimpse at his vision of me, of us, as Adventurers, Risk-Takers, as Doers of Things On the Weekends. I loved that look in his eyes that he had when I tried on my ski boots and tested my poles, then stared up-up-up at the nearly vertical, windswept starter hill upon which my 5 year old nephew learned to ski.
True, I nearly died a horrible death, as a mogul on children's run, but metaphorically I was given a vision of who we are, because Husband never gives up on me. And that's just about the best gift any one could wish for.
Apart from books. And pottery. And homemade fudge.
