Me and four kids under four feet tall. I feel even more like a giant than I normally do.
And sadly, most of them are better skiers than I am.
After ninety minutes, I've learned to pizza and french fry enough to stop and start. The most challenging thing for me is to stand up once I've fallen down.
Wait, check that. The most challenging thing is the damn J-hook bar contraption that drags me up the bunny hill. You can't sit. You can't stand. You hang in a weird crouch, praying your skis don't hit a rut knocking your ass over tea kettle into the other tow-ees, toppling them like bowling pins. Not that this happens. Okay, yes, it totally happens.
In a heap, one ski pointing one way, one ski lost, I'm pretty sure this skiing thing is not for me. And if I can figure out how to stand up, I'm going to go in the lodge and have a hot toddy. Or ten. And hope that this day passes quickly.
It's just I don't have a lot of free time. I work crazy hours. Free weekends are a rarity and to waste one on something I hate seems frivolous.
Maybe I'll read while I'm in the lodge. That's something on my list. To read three books this year. I've been trying to read the same book for about two years now. I never get through more than a page or two at a time, and anytime I get a large chunk of time to read, I have to start again because I can't remember what I've read.
This is what I'm thinking about, lying in a heap, snow creeping down into my snow pants.
"You need a hand?"
I look up through my goggles to see another begoggled face leaning down over me. The face emits a voice with a deep timbre, which makes my belly twist a little bit. A thick-gloved hand extends and I grasp it. With apparent ease, he hauls me up to a standing position. I still only have one ski on. Not saying a word, he retrieves my ski and guides my boot back into the binding.
"Better?" His smile shows a row of white teeth. Just one looks crooked. It's probably a good thing, though. Otherwise, I have a feeling he'd be too perfect. The best part—he's looking down on me. Do you know how often the guys I meet are my height or shorter? I swear there's a shortage of tall men out there.
"No. I'm still out here, making a fool out of myself."
"I take it this is your first time."
"Is it that obvious I'm a virgin?"
He lifts his goggles up, eyebrows raised. The bemused expression in his light green eyes highlights my faux pas. "Oh really? I didn't know we were getting this personal."
"Oh my God!" My mitten-covered hand, white with snow, flies to my mouth. Which, of course, results in me getting a face full of snow. "That's um, not, crap. I'm not a virgin-virgin. I meant a skiing virgin. I have lots of experience with the other. Well, not lots. I mean, I'm not loose or anything. Oh crap, I should just stop talking."
"No, keep talking. It's quite amusing."
"I'm going to go bury myself in a snow bank right now. Thanks for the help. It's been nice knowing you."
FYI, it's impossible to storm off in a dignified manner when you're wearing skis.