While most of you, sports enthusiasts, get excited about snow, and start pulling out your snow gear, giving it kisses, preparing and ironing it, or whatever it is you do. And while I get excited about snow too, the only snow related activity I am willing to accept into my life is going down a hill on a plastic bag. Because I don’t own a slate, otherwise I would totally use it instead of a plastic bag.
This wasn’t always like that. Back when I was in high school I used to snowboard. Not well I might add. But I liked the trill of epic falls, and bruises in places you didn’t know could be bruised, and the victorious feeling of making it downhill alive (bonus points if you didn’t leave injured corpses behind you). Also, I had a romantic experience in my life associated with snowboarding. Meaning I met someone through snowboarding and we were supposed to snowboard through life together while holding hands, and while having little snowboarding children. Until he would die first, because that’s just statistics.
That didn’t happen. We broke up (and he didn’t die), but I carried on the legacy of snowboarding. Until this one time, I was doing my usual descent of a drunken baby and fell in a way that I couldn’t get up anymore. So I dragged myself to the side and just laid there contemplating switching to water sports, or maybe knitting. And in about half an hour the patrolling people came and advised that I probably shouldn’t lay around in snow so much. And I agreed and swore to pick up knitting from now on instead. Then they said they’d need to get a snowmobile to escort me down. And I yelled I would prefer the one with reindeers into their disappearing backs.
Another half an hour later they came back with a snowmobile (the regular one, assholes), and took me to see a local nurse. Upon examination, it turned out I lost use of my right leg and it hurt, like freaking a lot. Then she told me I need to see my doctor and meanwhile put some ice on it. To which I replied that I was jut laying in ice for more than an hour and I don’t think she’s a good fucking nurse. But only in my head.
By the time we got home, it was pretty late and I was exhausted. I climbed three flights of stairs on my fours, doggy style. It was the only way I could transport myself. And then my mom opened the door, and I casually crawled past her and said that I’m fine and just decided to be a dog for a while, and then broke out into hysterical laughter. She didn’t appreciate the humor.
I was woken up by my mom standing over me, holding crutches. She got crutches somewhere while I was sleeping. That one is a resourceful woman.
And then was the hospital, diagnosis of a broken hip (which sounds more senile than anything), and a reindeer snowmobile that I never got to see.
P.S. Hey, it’s not all bad