Me vs Skiing: Part 2 - A New Dawn

If you haven't read part one, I would suggest you check it out HERE. 

You're back! Well it turns out, so was I.

Let's jump right in...15 years and three injuries to the same knee later....  

Getting back on skis after wrecking your knee a few too many times is not like riding a bike. It’s more like getting back on a bike that’s slightly on fire, in a snowstorm, while your kids are effortlessly carving turns down the hill yelling “C’mon, Mum! Why are you slow?” with the energy of a caffeinated goat who has never contemplated the possibility of their own mortality. 

I only started skiing again because of my daughter. All that follows is indirectly her fault, for better or worse. 

Our local middle school hosts ski trips for the students each year, and my darling child, who knew nothing of my love/hate relationship with skiing, insisted I be a parent helper.  The first day out with the school class was equal parts heartwarming and deeply humbling. There I was, bundled like a chilled sloth, feeling every past injury twinge with judgment as I tried to remember how to not snow plough my way down a green run.

It’s wild how your brain remembers the rhythm, the lean, the edge control—but your body just... doesn’t? I used to love the feeling of flying down the hill, but after a long break (and a very dodgy knee), I found myself staring down the bunny run like it was the final boss in a video game. Every turn felt like a negotiation with fate. Begging every deity I could name for grace and stability, and for a swift end to the day. But then I’d catch a glimpse of my daughter ahead—laughing, totally in her element—and something inside me unfurled. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was just that weird ski-boot circulation thing. Either way, I kept going.

And it was definitely stubbornness. Frankly, if you know me at all, it's usually stubbornness.

By the third run, something changed. I wasn’t gliding, exactly, but I wasn’t panicking either. The cold air felt less like a slap and more like a wake-up call. My knee, traitorous little goblin that it is, didn’t scream quite as loudly. I finally remembered why I loved this—being outside, being alive, being just the tiniest bit reckless. Skiing with a gaggle of twelve-year-olds might not have been how I imagined my triumphant return to the slopes, but it was exactly what I needed: messy, chaotic, full of joy.  I’ll take it.

And I didn't fall. I also didn't go fast, or look good doing it those first few days (seasons?), but I didn't fall. And then, with every day out, I kept not falling. Over that first season back, we got the whole family into skiing and it became our go-to activity in the winter. And I still didn't fall. Everyone else did, but I did not, and from one season to the next, it just became a thing that I didn't do. Ever.  

There’s a certain pride that comes from staying upright on skis. You start to wear your fall-free streak like a badge of honor. Oh, you fell on that blue run? Aren't you precious; I haven’t fallen since 2013. I became That Person. The one who’d say, casually and with a dash of false modesty, “I don’t usually fall,” right before launching into a steep descent like I had something to prove to gravity. And I did...gravity is a bit of an ass. 

But then last year, something shifted.

Maybe it was the snow. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the fact that the mountain doesn’t care about your streaks or your pride or how many overpriced protein bars you packed in your jacket.

Actually it was none of those things - it was a fucking twig.

The offending branch rose up out of the snow like a submarine periscope auditioning for a part in The Hunt for Red October; like some kind of sentient winter gremlin summoned just to trip me. The offending twig jammed itself snuggly and completely unseen against the side of ski when I came to a stop sideways on the slope.  

I started to point my skis downhill to make my next turn and instead of both skis turning, only one did. The other one held fast, perpendicular to my chosen direction. It was one of those slow-motion topples where you have a full five seconds while you superman through the air to reflect on your decisions before your body hits the snow. A very thoughtful fall, really. Very reflective. Namaste in motion.

Despite the steep terrain, the torqueing of the same knee I always injure (because why would we ever try to balance out the injuries?), and dramatic sail through the air, by some miracle I came out of the situation mostly undamaged. I chalk this up to keeping my skis set to release at the slightest hint of pressure, much like you'd set a child's skis, and I was pleasantly surprised at the results. 

The kids thought this was the single funniest thing they'd ever seen, and immediately pointed out how my no-fall streak was over. Happily however, no lasting damage was done, and eventually the curtain fell on another ski season, albeit one that had broken my otherwise fall-free streak.

Falls two and—regrettably—three found me this year. The snow gods, having indulged my overconfidence long enough, decided it was time I firmly reacquainted myself with gravity.

I was on a tree run — you know, those narrow, winding paths through dense forest that make you feel like an action hero until they suddenly remind you that you are a soft-bodied meat sack with limited reflexes. I turned sharply, maybe too sharply, and a tree —  the kind that has definitely been rooted in place for decades — appeared right in front of me. I didn’t crash into it so much as hurl myself to the side and ricochet off it. Politely. Like I was trying to greet it. Hello, yes, sorry, didn’t see you there. 

I got stuck, laying uphill on my stomach with my skis dug in a V shape stuck right into the snow bank. I tried to maintain some shred of dignity while trying to get myself out but there was no hope.  I did not have anything close to enough leverage to get either ski out of the snow while I was still attached to it, and laying there in the splits did not offer any feasible way to release the bindings so I could get up. My lovely family spent no small amount of time watching me flop around like a grounded manatee before deciding to finally help a girl out. 

On what thankfully became the final fall of the season, and happily not the last run of the season, I was carving down the slope with all the confidence of someone who had no idea what was about to happen. The snow was perfect, the sun was shining, and I was, for once, not immediately regretting my life choices, despite this being the same run on which I had superman-ed down the hill last season. Then, out of nowhere, a rogue branch—clearly harboring a personal vendetta, possibly in solidarity with the last branch that took me out—lunged at my ski with all the grace and subtlety of a bear trap. My ski caught, I didn’t. Physics took over from there, and I launched into what can best be described as a slow-motion interpretive dance of regret.

I continued skiing forward while simultaneously noticing a disturbing lightness on one foot. My ski, loyal companion that it was, had chosen to detach itself mid-chaos and make its own way in life—disappearing into the powder like it had been drafted into witness protection. I spent the next ten minutes crawling around the hill like a lost seal, digging through the snow and questioning all of my recent decisions.  

Eventually, after what was quickly becoming a concerning amount of time, I found the ski buried like a time capsule from a better era, and reattached it with the help of my daughter, who decided that if we were ever going to get moving again, assistance was needed. 

Falling, it turns out, didn’t break me like I expected it would.  It didn't mean that I was bad at skiing, just that branches are asinine snow goblins dressed up in bark and there's nothing you can do about that. It meant... I was skiing. I was trying. I was in motion. I was letting the mountain do what mountains do — humble you, challenge you, remind you that control is always a little bit of an illusion.

I used to think staying upright meant I was strong. But maybe falling and getting back up — awkwardly, with snow in my gloves and a bruised ego among other things — means I’m stronger now.

So in the end, I didn’t just fall—I graduated, with honors, from the University of Gravity, where my thesis was titled: “Twigs Are Bastards: Hard Truths I Learned While Face-Down in the Snow”. 

Me vs Skiing as a Mechanism to Help Orthopedic Surgeons Make Car Payments

I used to think I was invincible on skis.  Not in the Olympic, adrenaline-junkie, GoPro-mounting kind of way. More like: I'm in my early 20's, I’ve been skiing for years and I never fall. Ever. I’ve cruised through icy moguls, navigated narrow tree runs, and somehow avoided the spectacular, cartoonish wipeouts that seem like a rite of passage for most people on the slopes. It wasn’t that I was amazing at skiing. I was just... stubbornly vertical.

But like any good Icarus flying too close to the sun, one day I came down too hard. The yard sale was vast and the pain was immediate. I knew things had gone terribly wrong and so did the coven of ski patrol that gathered around and bundled me up for the ride down the hill in the uncomfortable little sled of shame. 

For those of you who haven't experience the joy of a free ride down a mountain from the dear souls who help injured skiers, I can attest that it's less fun than it looks. For reasons that to this day still escape my scope, they put me on the stretcher facing head down the mountain, and then towed me along behind a skier who I'm confident dodged towards bumps on the trail. My head was so disproportionately full of blood compared to my feet, that I'm a bit surprised I didn't just simply die from the pressure. And those sleds leave a lot to be desired. If I ever become insufferably rich, I would consider funding sleds with shock absorption, because the only things absorbing every bump down that god-forsaken mountain was my skull.  

When I got to the base, the indignity didn't end. I was unceremoniously piled into an ambulance for a 3 minute ride, the equivalent of around 6 blocks, for which I later received a $250.00 bill, and then pushed into a bay in the ski resort's on site ER. 

And then I waited.  

I was very hungry because this nightmare ordeal had brought me to lunch time. My bag with my lunch was just out of reach. I could see the doctor across the hall eating a sandwich. I hated him. 

I waited some more. I waited so long I almost achieved inner peace. Almost.

A few hours later, after seeing the doctor and being wildly misdiagnosed (as I would discover later), I was bluntly told to leave the ER. I was young, tired, hungry, in significant pain, and absolutely suffering from shock, but most importantly I had NO SHOES. I became hyper-focused on this one fact. I was being asked to leave the hospital, in the winter, with no footwear. Where on earth was he proposing I go???

A nurse finally came in to shoo me out of the room and I just burst into tears, sobbing incoherently about snow and my feet, and having nowhere to go because I didn't even know where I was in relation to my car. I didn't even have anyone I could call because my friends were all still skiing, because ski passes are expensive and you do need to get your runs in.

I was stuck, I was shoe-less, and I was without a good means of communication because this was the final throes of the dark ages where smart phones weren't really a thing yet.  So I waited some more, this time in a cold waiting room where the nurse had finally relented to let me stay, with one bare foot because no army could have convinced me to wrestle my foot into a ski boot and risk jostling my knee. 

Eventually the rest of my party returned and with them came a new problem that I hadn't considered until that point. I had driven us there, and it was glaringly obvious that I would not be driving us home. Normally, this would not be a problem, however at that time I had a sporty little standard transmission vehicle, which was neither designed for passengers with massive new leg braces, or for people who normally only drove automatics. 

My (not yet) husband stood by the open driver’s door, looking at me with a mixture of concern and dread—not for my injury, but for the fact that the only way to get home now meant he had to drive my manual transmission car.

I walked him through it from the passenger seat, gritting my teeth and trying not to snap as he stalled twice before we even left the parking lot. “Clutch in—no, all the way in. Now slowly ease off while you give it gas.” He muttered something about how this shouldn’t be legal, how no one should have to learn this under pressure, but to his credit, he kept trying. Every lurch and stall sent a jolt through my body, and I did my level best not to pass out so I could be available for questions if they came up. Eventually, the car jerked into motion, and we crawled along the road like a newborn fawn finding its legs. It wasn’t pretty, but it was enough, and within a half an hour he was bas. We got home.

From that point forward, my life was an endless stream of doctors and specialists, 3 different diagnoses, x-rays and MRIs, all to determine that I had bone marrow edema in my knee, and I couldn't walk properly for more than a year. 

Was this the end of my ski career? No! I was still young enough to be surprisingly dumb, and so four years after my first accident I tried skiing again. I was still good. For the entire season, I was good. And then, on the last run of the last day of our ski season, I strapped on my wax wings, threw up a middle finger, and jumped for the sun.

I remember laying on the snow in my little pile of  pain and hubris, and all I could think was I will not go down the mountain in that fucking sled again. So, with gritted teeth and a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush, I stubbornly side-slipped down the last half of the run, hobbled into the lodge, and waited for my  (still not yet) husband to bring me the car. 

The miracle here was that just like the first time, I had not torn anything and had recreated the special conditions that lead to another round of edema, and another year or so of staggering around. The only upside to this injury was that it had something of a routine to it now, and recovery wasn't quite as painful as the first time. 

The third time I injured my knee I stood up out of a chair while pregnant and tore all the cartilage in the offending appendage. No cool story, just somehow simultaneously the most serious and least exciting of the three knee-related events, and what I believed would be the kiss of death to any future ski days. 

My specialist just looked at me and said "You really want knee surgery, don't you?"

                                                                           

Will our hero ever ski again? 

Will her knee pain haunt her as she ages, until eventually becoming the arthritis her specialist told her she should definitely have after being so cruel to her joints?

Yes and YES! 

Come back for part two of this riveting ski saga where we find out that Jamie has absolutely not learned anything from past behaviour, and will continue to leverage that misplaced confidence for your reading pleasure.

Me vs More F*&$InG Cows: Moo-ving Targets and Questionable Heroics

I'm beginning to realize that for very unplanned reasons, cows have figured prominently in my writing for years now, and this post is no exception. You're welcome.

Living in the country comes with its perks: quiet nights, open spaces, and the occasional deer wandering through the yard like they’re auditioning for a Hallmark Christmas special. But no one warns you about cows.  These lumbering escape artists turned my peaceful yard into their personal hangout, and I found myself in the middle of a battle of wits with creatures whose main hobby is chewing grass and judging you silently. Spoiler: they are better at both.

I don't particularly like cows. They're fine, but generally I prefer them nicely done on a bbq than staring me down across the driveway.  I'm confident that cute, personable cows are out there, but the ones I've had the pleasure of interacting with have all been big and dumb, and subsequently intimidating in their stupidity.  

Like I do sometimes, I was enjoying my morning in the backyard, doing some painting and admiring the crisp rural air, when the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Something was behind me, watching me, questioning my use of the colour blue.  I turned around expecting a bear or a cougar, because that felt likely in the forest, but no, it was six cows— six brown and white cows, standing in my yard like they pay my taxes, casually munching on my grass and shitting everywhere. One of them locked eyes with me, her expression saying, Try me, subordinate.

Well, game on, Betsy May.

I called the owner to let them know that I probably had their cows. They were not in town and suggested I just "go over and tell them to go home".

Now, I'm not an experienced cow handler, but I don't think they work like that. They are cows, not homing pigeons.

I honestly didn't know what to do. I'd known someone who was trampled by a cow, and he was a cowboy with years of cow practice, and I was...not. The offending cow had left his leg mangled, and my belief in the charm of cows fully destroyed. Under no circumstance was I getting anywhere near those obtuse meat tanks. 

So I considered my options: Chasing cows on foot? No. I valued my ability to walk without a limp. Calling their owner? Tried that and I was on my own unless I trusted the herd's sense of direction, which I did not.  The obvious answer here was taking the cows for a walk like a country girl: by truck. Trucks are made for rugged terrains, hauling trailers, and, as it turns out, cow herding....primarily because I felt I was closer to an even weight class when safely tucked inside. 

With the confidence of someone who had watched Yellowstone once, decided all the characters were reprehensible, and then fallen asleep halfway through, I hopped into my standard issue black truck and set off on a mission.

I started slowly creeping up on them like a tiger in the wild—if tigers had poor visibility, some rust, and a playlist blasting '90s rock. The cows, unbothered, gave me a side-eye and continue munching. I gently revved the engine, hoping to scare them off and get them moving down the road towards their farm. Nothing. These cows had nerves of steel or were just too stupid to grasp what was happening. Jury’s still out.

I gave it a little gas. The truck inched closer. This gets their attention. The cows start to meander off, clearly offended by my intrusion.  But the leader—the cow equivalent of the cool girl in high school—stands her ground.

I edge closer, thinking, I’m bigger, I’m faster, I have a vehicle. She thinks, NO. I eat, you leave! 

What followed was a ridiculous game of very slow chicken, which was interesting given that this was a cow, but  finally, with a disgruntled moo that I’m pretty sure was cow-speak for Eat Glass she sauntered off down the road after her coven.

Victory? No. There's no winning here. 

Cows are stubborn creatures, and as soon as I turned my back to go inside, they started creeping back into the yard. It became a whole morning ordeal—me chasing them out, them returning, and me questioning my life choices. Eventually, I herded them by truck all the way down my long driveway, down the road, and hopefully off towards their pasture...or at least in that general direction. I'm sure they got home eventually. Probably. I assume I would have heard about it otherwise. 

In surviving this up close and personal cow encounter, I will say that I learned a few things: Cows have no respect for personal property and would prefer if you left please, trucks make excellent cow-chasing tools, but you will feel very ridiculous taking cows for a walk with your truck, and people with actual ranching experience will find this whole situation far less traumatic than you do. Moo. 

Me vs The End of Hoilday Falsehoods

As a parent, you want to make the most of the holidays for your children. Traditionally, this means lying to them about the existence of things like a large voyeuristic man in a red suit who sneaks into your house at night to leave you stuff, or a large anthropomorphic rabbit who sneaks into your house at night to leave you stuff, or a small fae creature who sneaks into you house at night to take your stuff, but then also leaves you stuff. To summarize, there's a surprising amount of night time break and enters that we collectively seem to turn a blind eye to. 

But like all good things these childhood deceptions must end, sometimes with traumatic fanfare, sometimes as quietly as a pin dropped on the forest floor, and occasionally with something approaching mania. 

My sister takes the prize for "Most traumatic death of a childhood fantasy" that I am aware of. Reality came crashing down when our house was broken into. Instead of coming in and leaving gifts, which up until this point was all that strangers coming into your house were supposed to do, they just stole all our stuff. During the assault on our house, while riffling though my parents room, they dumped a jewelry box onto the bed; along with all my mother's jewelry, came years of baby teeth, crashing onto the duvet in all their off white, nightmare fueled glory.

Suffice to say the robbers neglected to claim the teeth as their own, breaking the time-honoured fae contract to break in, take teeth, and leave gifts.  They also failed to clean up after themselves. This was both unforgivably rude, and left years of dental-specific evidence of my parent's falsehood scattered around the room for us to discover. In the end it turns out there are only two real reasons that your parents have large numbers of children's teeth in their possession: they are serial killers keeping trophies or the Tooth Fairy isn't real. The latter seemed more likely, and so the Tooth Fairy and all her ilk died for my sister that day.  

With my daughter it was less overtly traumatizing; the realization came to her one day, shortly before Easter, that a bunny delivering chocolate eggs went just a bit beyond the scope of believability. I gently explained that yes, we were absolutely making that nonsense up, but she'd still get chocolate. The panicked look subsided and then there was a sharp intake of breath. She looked at me, tears glistening, and just said the Tooth Fairy? Yes. And then another small intake of breath, the truth sinking in....SANTA? Also yes. 

I curbed the agony with the speech about how she was now in on the secret and had to help us "be Santa" for her brother, who was still very committed to the myth. We got through it and carried on but now there was a shadow lurking over my shoulder.....when my youngest figured it out, how would I play it off? For him it would just be over. No helping younger siblings, no being in on it, just the finality of death, the end of a belief. It would just over. He's a very sensitive kid, I was worried. 

It turns out that I didn't need to be. My sensitive, empathetic little guy is also corporate spy-level devious, and fully committed to fucking with us as well. 

The illusion crumbled a few nights ago. He'd lost a tooth, which is never something I look forward to because I hate teeth. Everything about them is horrible the moment they stop being functional teeth, and seeing a detached molar sitting on a bedside table makes me want to scream. 

But I digress. 

As he's telling me the harrowing tale of the lost tooth, he looks at me and in a perfectly matter of fact tone says: Hey mom, what do you do with all the teeth after you take them?

WHAT? Wait....what do you mean? Do you mean what the tooth fairy does with them?

No. You. I know you take them. 

Oh.....well if we're doing this, then I guess I throw them out. I don't have a reason to keep your teeth. That would be weird.  (MOM! See...keeping teeth is weird)

Hmm, yeah that makes sense. 

So, um, how long have you known???

Oh, probably the last 4 teeth. 

And then something inside me snapped and I just started cackling like a mad woman. I explained to him that I had just been setting an alarm on my phone to remember the stupid tooth, and it was nice that didn't have to happen. But of course he still wanted his tooth money, so like a normal, not crazy, definitely not insane parent, I made him get up and flap his way to the garbage can to get rid of it in the magical tooth fairy depository, and then flap his way to my wallet, following which he had to properly place his winnings under his pillow. By the end I'm surprised we could still move, we were laughing so hard. 

But now that the fairy was out of the proverbial bag, I needed to know what the parameters were. 

The Bunny?

Oh yeah, I've known about that one for a while too. But I like chocolate. Did you really think I believed a bunny was doing that?

Well, I certainly wasn't sneaking around like an idiot hiding eggs for my own sake, so yeah.

He found this terribly funny.

And I guess that means you're in on the whole Santa bit as well? 

This was not going at all like I had thought or feared it would, but I was also starting to wonder if my son was smarter than me. Probably. 

Well, yeah. I picked up on clues. Again, it feels a bit unbelievable at this point. 

True enough, you tiny sociopath, but then why make me suffer through all the ridiculous sneaking around? That shit isn't easy. 

Again he laughs, and now I'm starting to wonder if he finds human suffering entertaining. 

No mom, I didn't want to ruin it for you guys. 

Nope, he's definitely just smarter than me. 

Well, at least I won't have to hide that stupid elf on the shelf anymore. 

He looks at me dead in the eye. Oh no, I still want you to do THAT. It's fun. 

He knows I hate the elf. This is not fun, this is war.

  

Me vs A Duck update

This many years into the strange war that I started with my mother, that has now extended to include children, siblings, and spouses, it shouldn't surprise me at all when the ante keeps getting upped. 

My mom is still finding ducks (she's currently recovered 38), but it turns out that both her and my dad have been using more than a little free time formulating plans and flexing their arts and crafts muscles in the interest of warfare. And I have to admit they've outdone themselves. 

When they showed up this weekend for a visit they had "gifts" for us. May I present for your consideration, then next generation of the Duckening....

First, meet the Turducken. It's stuffed full of tiny ducks, and I wish it had stayed that way. When my youngest removed the tape gag and unstuffed this rubbery horror, he discovered that when squeezed it made a sound so uniquely awful, that a dream dies every time the noise reaches your ears.  What is especially amazing is that this is obviously a dog toy made by Satan, and my parents don't own a dog; they went out looking specifically for stuffable bird and bought it for this one special purpose. I can't even be mad. Well done. 

The next up was my gift. Cheese and Quackers. I can hear you all groan; I did the same thing. This is a terrible pun and deserves our displeasure. Fully and beautifully wrapped, I received cream cheese and a surprisingly well resealed package of "quackers". At least I got a block of cream cheese out of it. 

And finally, the piece de resistance, and possibly an homage to the Olympics being held in France, may I present to you Duck a l'Orange.  I mean, really, no notes. This is just brilliant. Although the mouth-feel does leave a bit to be desired, and it has more crunch than I would expect of a French delicacy. 10/10

Guess it's my turn next. I have some ideas...