Last weekend, my boyfriend Colin and I went to Vermont to ski at Smuggler’s Notch, a resort that got its name from the Prohibition-era smugglers who used the mountain range and its caves to smuggle liquor across the Canadian border. I joked to Colin that this meant we should always have a flask on hand, but he intelligently reminded me that I’m accident-prone enough already. Point taken. In that same vein, I was peer-pressured by Colin and his friends to wear a helmet for the first time in my life as a skier.
In Michigan, the only people who wear helmets on the slopes are 5-year-olds and awkward beginning snowboarders. But Vermont has real mountains with real cliffs, unlike Michigan’s manufactured ski slopes, so I strapped on my helmet with only a small amount of fuss.
The first day of skiing was horrible. It was raining when we set out, and the higher up the mountain we went, the rain turned into sleet and hail with 30-m.p.h. winds. During this time, I also discovered that my circa-1990s ski gear was no longer waterproof. I was, as Colin describes it, “a little miserable.” Translation: I was a bitch.
Fortunately, the next day was gorgeous and sunny, and although the slopes were a bit icy, we got a chance to do some great skiing, followed by an evening full of drunken, shouting karaoke. I kept it classy by performing “Pretty Fly for a White Guy” and a few Ace of Base songs. Colin captured it all on video. I hope I never have to watch it.