As you have probably guessed by now, when I got married, I was introduced to a plethora of new experiences, most of which consisted of taking some sort of physical risk and/or required aerobic exertion.
My husband has never quite convinced me that snowboarding is indeed an enjoyable, exhilarating winter sport, as opposed to the nerve-racking, heart-palpitating, blood pressure raising activity I know it to be. I compromised, though, and agreed to take up cross-country skiing.
I had even gone cross-country skiing a couple of times prior to meeting my husband, although my encounters with the sport were limited to skiing on short, flat, well-groomed trails with a trained instructor.
During what I fondly call the honeymoon period of my marriage, Dan and I decided to go cross-country skiing for the first time as a newlywed couple. It was, in fact, on our honeymoon that the following event occurred, and it was the period of our marriage before I had revealed my anxiety-ridden personality to my husband,
“I’ve been tons of times,” I said, feigning indifference and expertise.
When we reached the Nordic lodge, Dan handed me my boots and skis.
“Shouldn’t we take a lesson first?” I asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve skied.”
“They have cross-country lessons? It’s so easy. Anybody can do it,” was his response.
In reality, it was a little like riding a bicycle. Pretty soon, I looked so good that Dan said, “Let’s go on some blue trails!”
Now, green trails are the easy trails, blue trails are the moderate trails, and black trails . . . well, even during the honeymoon period, I had made it clear that I was not going to ski any black trails.
Against my better judgment, I followed my husband onto a blue trail. And I was doing great, until I approached my first hill. Hills are the very reason I do not “downhill ski” and instead choose to “cross-country ski.”
As I rolled down the hill, I yelled, “I told you not to take me on a blue trail!”
When the laws of gravity finally finished with me, from my prostrate position in the snow, I began to blame Dan for, not only my fall, but all of the terrible catastrophes throughout history – wars, famines, plagues, etc.
“But wasn’t going down the hill just a little bit fun? At least until you fell?” he asked.
I did make it down a few minor slopes after the first disaster and did eventually admit that it was fun . . . when I didn’t fall.
The final hill on the trail, however, appeared to be long and steep from my perch, and I stood pensively at the summit, contemplating my imminent death.
“You could really hurt yourself on this hill if you don’t know what you’re doing,” another skier said to me, as he glided gracefully down the slope.
So I took off my skis and walked down the hill which, apparently, was not the smartest solution either because the snow from the hill froze onto my boot binding, making it impossible for me to snap my skis back into place.
One of the Nordic trail employees, who happened to be skiing by, returned to the lodge to call for help. A few minutes later, an emergency snowmobile showed up to give me a ride back to the lodge; by that time, the snow had melted off of my boot, and I was able to put on my skis again.
My husband was rather embarrassed by the incident. Yet the newly gained enlightenment regarding his new wife proved to be invaluable.
We still cross-country ski in the winter, but we stick to the green trails.
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