History 101- Faces

Each winter during my childhood and teen years, a cold seat would be backed up against my rear nearly every weekend. Even today, no matter the temperature outside, my backside keeps its own steady, sub-zero temperature that I attribute to sustained 'usage and acclimation'- but my rear is a topic I'd rather not mention more about.

The culprit was either a snowmobile or a chairlift; never mind sledding.

Twenty or so feet off the ground on a ski lift, I felt in flight and at home. Perhaps the closest thing I could muster compared with wings, the cold metal and barely-there black padding would set me sailing upward and onward with wild chill stinging my smiling red face and chapping my lips.

A Homo sapien/Fowl variety? One can dream.

Heights never scared me and the peaceful quietness of being near the tops of snow sagging trees, flying parallel with a good slope and a birds eye view was equal in greatness to flying down runs on my skis.

As I've aged and ventured to a ski resort less often then I wish, I breathe in the brisk air feeling cold steel on my back and appreciate the rest time that the lift- or flight- affords me. I feel less and less like a bird and more like a whale in air as my ski laden 'wings' hang heavily on my knees.

No longer do I search out the nearest human snowball victim tumbling down the run so I can sing "Another one bites the dust" in my loudest recognizable voice. Now I remember those times with fondness when I witness a new victim and smile silently to myself as Queen sings in my head.

Gone are the carefree days of stolen kisses under the night ski stars and the freedom that comes from being stuck on a lift under someones arm. Flying with courage. Wing to wing. Waiting for the right moment. Such trepidation! Strange how memories make a sudden appearance when your forced to touch thighs with a stranger for a short flight to the top of a run. I'd welcome Mick with a cozy thigh on the seat beside me now if it weren't for his decrepit knees, though if those were well, we would surely separate anyhow to ensure one on one with the girls. Soon enough.

After an it-has-been-WAY-too-long absence away from skiing, Aspen and I hit the slopes for her first ever ski adventure. We were both nervous. Her, for the fear of death that Mick so gratefully (I say sarcastically) instilled in her, and me for lack of faith in my old broken body's ability to recall its necessary form and function of a skier.

Aspen is a quick learner. She had a short lesson, perfected her wedge and with a few wide turns and spills, she was off!

As soon as I set my rear on the cold seat of Little Beav, fear left me, my eyes closed and a smile set my chin. Peace set in, memories flooded back as the wind hit me square, and I took a deep breath letting the lift carry my grounded wings upward and onward and ready for the journey downhill.