ski-chick diaries: post-piste

On arrival in Torgon, as I slipped clumsily down the icy incline to my bedroom, the thought that I was unable to stay upright on the snow in my ugg-boots accentuated doubts that I was actually going to live to see the end of the week once I traded comfortable footwear for skis.
In the week that ensued I found myself flying down mountainsides at speeds that I'd be far more comfortable doing in a car. My peers were convinced that I had learned to ski in the space of a few days when, in fact, I'd simply not learned how to take it slow or how to stop effectively. Despite my inability to use my snow-plough technique to keep me from racing my fellow skiers, I came away with relatively few injuries and only a couple of bruises. These were largely due to beginner blunders such as slipping down slopes backwards, leaving my beginner group far behind as I careered towards a forest of pine trees and a couple of instances where my legs simply gave up on me after more exercise than they have ever had to endure over the course of my entire 24 years of existence.
Thanks to Sander, our Dutch instructor who fell down laughing into the snow every time one of us landed on our backsides or jammed a ski-lift or flew into the snow face-first, I did in fact learn to enjoy the slopes of Porte Du Soleil and found myself planning next years trip without a moments hesitation.
Fox was incredibly encouraging until an impromptu off-piste detour left me totally buried in thick, white powder. Unable to see through my snow-covered goggles, all I could hear were the muffled sounds of Fox's laughter from the top of the slope as I shouted the need to be rescued. After ensuring that my distress was caught on film, my knight-in-ski-gear came whooshing down the slope on his snowboard to pull me from my snowy-pit...my hero.
The thermals are packed away for another year. But the mulled wine is warming and pisters are revving, ready for ski-chick to dominate the slopes in 2009. Until then!

ski-chick diaries: preparation stage

I spent an hour in Lilywhites this afternoon gathering the last of my gear for our ski trip next week. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't find a Bridget Jones inspired, all-in-one, pink jumpsuit but when I realised I could get kids attire for a third of the price I stopped being picky. Laden with gloves, thermal underwear, ski boots and other ‘ski-chick extraordinaire’ essentials I left feeling quite eager to hit the slopes. I must admit, I'm starting to reconsider my decision to opt out of ski lessons. I'm not sure how I expected to be able to navigate the snow - perhaps instinctively - but as the thought of overbearing mountains becomes a looming reality I'm not quite as confident as I was when filling in my form.
Anyway, in my opinion, snow and ski holidays are a definite perk of winter. The necessity to pile on ten layers of clothing every time you prepare to walk outside and an insatiable appetite for anything that is starchy and warm are not quite as appealing. I'm lacking motivation and frankly, the desire to go to bed at 19:30 is vastly uncharacteristic of a night owl such as I. The only explanation is that it is the time of year when my body thinks I'm a grizzly bear (don't laugh, I'm not that small) and all it wants to do is hibernate. If only.
But another week in wintry London is made tolerable by the appealing thought of gliding effortlessly down the slopes, a vast snow-covered mountain forming a picturesque backdrop of tranquil grandeur behind me. Illusions aside, it’s more likely that I’ll be flat on my back, one ski perpendicular in the snow, the other lying 3 metres from me as a ski-school of 10 year old kids swerves obnoxiously around me. That, coupled with unbearably stiff legs on day three and a goggles tan and I just can’t wait.

good year ahead

Here I sit, watching the Wedding Singer for the fourth time and trying to distract myself from the mild feeling of guilt that is resultant from this being my first update in *cough* three *cough* months. My face is slightly tinted from the Portuguese sun, I'm searching for ski goggles online and thinking that EBay probably isn't an option for next week. I'm sporting a new hairdo that will last for approximately three days, at which point I'll be forced to accept that my hair will always be Medusa-like. I've just checked work emails on a Saturday, not because I had to but because I genuinely enjoy my work. I'm wearing my comfy ugh-slippers as an act of denial that it's mid-winter and not having the central heating on is bordering on madness.
I prefer to do my reflection a few days after New Year. My resistance towards New Years resolutions is really the extent of my rebelliousness but it is the one time of the year that is just too cliché for me to appreciate. I'm please to conclude, post-reflection, that right now there is little I feel the need to change. I could resolve to increase my exercise but the pressure would just make me feel lazy; I could say that I'm going to spend less money but I live in London; maybe I should go to bed earlier but I've become quite accustomed to hitting snooze until I absolutely must get up in the morning. I'm far more attracted to the idea of eating more chocolate, reading more soppy romance novels, spending more time at home chilling out with my man and seeing more of the world. Now that's a year to look forward to. Oh, and I’m really going to try and write more.