The four of us were sitting at the table eating dinner the other night when Nate broke the deafening silence with a loud Hey! Let’s go skiing on Saturday!
And instantly, there were screams and shouts and a cacophony of Really really really?
and Can we, can we, can we, can we?
and No way!
and I can’t wait for this weekend! Ugh, why is it only Tuesday today?
and Whooo hooo!
and HOLY JESUS IN BIRKENSTOCKS, YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS. HAVE WE MET?
I’m still dealing with the psychological damage I sustained the last time I tried to slide down a mountain on shiny, obscenely long, metal toothpicks.
There’s not enough Xanax in the world, people. Not nearly enough.
So while I’m trying to drum up some enthusiasm and put on a smiley, brave face for the kids who are excited as hell about the whole thing, I can’t help but be jealous of the rest of you who are probably doing something fun on Saturday, like bludgeoning yourselves into comas with cast iron skillets.
Speaking of my brave, smiley face, please don’t forget it. You know, just in case you have to give a description to the state police when I disappear after catching air and inadvertently flying off the snowy edge of western New York and plunging into the depths of Lake Michigan.
This is me, taken on one of the only two good hair days I’ve had lately.
Excuse me while I stare at this photo wistfully as I’m pretty sure that after Saturday, I will never have a good hair day again.
Can corpses have good hair days?
I wasn’t looking forward to turning 44 this year but now that I’m likely to perish on Saturday, I’m thinking that there are worse things than slamming into my mid-forties.
Like, say, not turning 44 because my dead, frozen carcass remains buried in a snow drift atop a mountain where it was left to rot after being impaled by its own ski pole while trying to get its bulky, uncoordinated, athletically-challenged ass off a ski lift with anything remotely resembling grace.
Remember me fondly.