My Little Skiing Love Pig

One of the fab members of my crit group, the Non-Biscuit Ninjas of Death, is going skiing. Skiing and I do not get along. In fact, if our crit group was called the Non-Biscuit Skiing Ninjas of Death, I wouldn't have joined. I would have run screaming with fear in the opposite direction.

But lucky for me, it isn't. Because the addition of another word would screw with our acronym, which is N-NOD. It sounds like a league of superpeepul or a weapons system designed by the goverment. Can't you just hear some general shouting, "The shaved sasquatch are attacking! Arm N-NOD!"

Back to skiing. See, the first (and only) time I went downhill skiing, I was in Quebec. My dad lived there, on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere kinda like a hermit. And a couple of mountains over, there was a ski resort. Now, you also need to know that I don't speak French. The only complete sentence I can say in French translates as "Do it to me harder, my little love pig," which is not exactly the best way to impress your father with your mad language skilz.

So we went skiing. And I soon learned that I was meant to do a lot of things, but sailing around with boards strapped to my feet was not one of them. The tow rope on the bunny slope tried to eat me. It jerked; I fell down, and one of my gloves stuck to it, dragging me up the hill on my face and nearly towing me into the gears at the top before someone turned it off. I finally got down the hill, only halfway there I realized that my instructor hadn't ever told me how to stop. (I hate that instructor with the fire of a thousand suns. I don't care how cute he was.) So I ended up rolling to a stop with my skis crossed over this Quebecish guy with bad breath. Probably had something to do with the fact that they dip their french fries in mayo. And he's yelling right in my face. In French.

Later on, my boyfriend told me that the guy was calling me an idiotic American butt monkey. I'm pretty sure he was kidding, but the operative word in that sentence is "pretty." I'm not entirely sure.

Needless to say, after I untangled my skis and wiped the mayo-scented spittle off my face, I went inside and drank hot chocolate the rest of the day. I've never gone skiing again, and I never will. I'm too afraid of the angry French people.