“You’re turns are looking really nice,” I tell my friend ‘S’. We are standing in the snow half way up Silver Mountain. Well, we are really standing in ski boots, which are bound to fiberglass popsicle sticks with a sliding slick underbelly designed to induce near death visions.
“Oh yah? I kinda don’t feel like I’m doing that well,” she tells me. We’ve stopped to let the internal muscular burn of lactic acid production fade a bit before skiing the rest of the way down to the designated ski lift.
“Ya, when I went skiing with my dad he told me I was looking pretty good on the moguls and I was like, ‘really? I feel like I’m in control, maybe, half the time.’”
“Ya, that’s how I feel too!” ‘S’ laughs and produces one of her elfin smiles, the kind you have to smile back at no matter what.
We go quiet so we can just breathe. It isn’t the first ski of the season for either of us, but we can’t make it quite often enough to stay in shape for our near death experiences that for the same and different reasons, we both love. We didn’t think the rain was going to turn into snow but kept the faith and about half way up the Gandola ride, much to our relief, snow. We’ve skied for four or five hours now and I don’t know about ‘S’ for certain, but my burning quadriceps are starting to accrue a strange sort of squishy feel.
“Well,” I say after a few moments thought, “I guess that’s the secret, everybody’s just pretending, faking it. They really aren’t in control half the time either. “ ‘Hey dude’ “ I change my voice and act out,” ‘that was so awesome!’ ‘Yeah man, it’s cool, no big deal but uh, I got to go to the bathroom now cause I shit my pants.’ “
We laugh about this for a while before skiing the rest of the way down the mountain. It’s the call back joke for the rest of the day, because I guess poop is just funny. Thinking of the oh-so-cool trick snowboarders shitting there pants, is just a satisfying, goofy thought.
But I’ve discovered that this assessment of my fellow sliding-down-snow-lovers applies very well to the big picture, life, being an adult. All adults and grown ups, (and this includes me now, much to my shock and awe) are faking it. They’re pretending. They’re scared shitless. Which is the only reason why they don’t actually shit themselves until the effects of the bran muffin that is Time kicks in after retirement.
So I laugh at my dorky crashes and awkward pole versus skis moments and don’t care what people think because I love skiing, period. Why can’t I do the same with life? Mmh. Well, shit.