Snowboarding Outing

The snow that I was so eagerly awaiting never materialized so I decided to take matters into my own hands and hit the local ski slopes, where they manufacture snow.  I borrowed my daughter’s snowboard and realized a little too late that I’m just no damn good at it.  Apparently, staying upright is a prerequisite for calling a run a “success”.  I’d get about half the way down and topple over, not confident in my ability to stop further down.  Then I’d go the rest of the way down with a thoroughly wet ass and listening to the teenaged experts whiz by me with perfect poise. Anyway, I got my snow fix and the demi-admiration of a few of the kids who were queued up to descend, surprised to see an “old guy” trying to “board”.  There was one other middle-aged guy there, but he had the good sense to try to go down only  a couple of times, whereas I was a glutton for self-abuse and went down the hill until I did finally manage to finish standing more or less erect.  Bruised hips, knees and soreness that reminds me of symptoms of tetanus are my trophies for the day. 

It was a good day though; winter sports always make for good days.  The times I can remember as a child of coming into a warm house, cheeks afire from the burn of cold wind, shaking off crystallized mittens and anticipating hot cocoa are resurrected whenever I spend a day out in winter.  It was a good day, but I could still feel the blackness somewhere at my heels, the way you can feel the air wanting to turn cold in the fall.  The suicidal ideations are quick and sharp in the way they come at you, and that frustrates what would be an otherwise completely good day.