So it turns out I rule at skiing. And by that, I, of course, mean that I hate my knees and seek only to destroy them. And my wrists, and my ankles. Oh, and judging by the foods I ate, I also hate any part of my body that isn’t high blood pressure or cholesterol.
Lisa, in a fit of the oh-my-God-I-need-to-get-out-of-this-house flu, put together a weekend in Ellicottville with friends who know how to correctly spend a weekend in Ellicottville. Booze, food marinated in booze, poker with booze, skiing (then booze), cigars dipped in booze, and even a little dog named, oddly enough, “Molson”. When we got there, the mighty Megomez and her husband-to-be had a roaring fire waiting for us. I contented myself on guacamole and really good chili while the group’s combined bravery built up to the point where skiing seemed like an excellent idea. The aforementioned booze helped.
Despite our injuries, we skied again on Sunday, and though I never fell or hit any trees or anything, the damage had definitely been done. I used to ski quite a bit back in my middle/high school days. But at some point between then and this past weekend I a) forgot that you really had to beat up your knees in order for that whole pizza, french fry, pizza, french fry rhythm to work and b) somehow replaced my good knees with shitty old man knees.
Grabes had this list of things to bring for the trip. Here’s what I took away:
A list of excellent baby names compiled in spite of (due too?) the haze of drunkenness.
A few leftover Power-bars.
A new appreciation of Sigur Ros (still need that Radiohead-ucation...)
$15 won in a poker game.
And of course, the lingering smell of BBQ potato chips in my jacket, courtesy of the roaring fire.
1 year ago