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While this cutting-edge teaching was going on, my sister and Future Perfect Partner were skiing their butts off and plotting my very humiliating future.
They took me to the top of the mountain where I successfully managed to get off the chair and remain upright. It was the last success of the day. Getting down the mountain took most of the rest of the afternoon. I’d ski a few feet, fall, discover the teflon-like qualities of K-Way pants, get up again, curse unlovingly at women I was supposed to love like a brother and lover, slide a few more feet and repeat the whole mess all over again.
About half way down, a miracle happened. I made a turn. After which I fell down. But then I made another turn… without falling. Somewhere near the bottom — admittedly an hour later — I linked two turns and, yes, felt a refreshing breeze caress my sweat-soaked face.
No one was more shocked than my sister and FPP when I got to the bottom and skied right back onto the chairlift! No one, that is, except for the woman I skied right up behind who was already waiting for the chair to come around. Whoa, skiing and lap dancing.
I don’t know if my Perfect Partner would have insisted I go skiing 20 years ago had she known we’d eventually conspire to leave high-paying jobs and move to Whistler and become ski bums. But on the scale of life-changing events, Christmas 20 years ago was most definitely a high point.