“You want anything else?” Granny asks as she rises from her chair and starts to clear the table.
“No, thank you.” I want to add that I’m stuffed so she’ll think I eat next to nothing, but that would be a flat-out lie. I’m not stuffed. I’m starving. I consider throwing myself on the biscuits and gravy, but decide against it. Instead, I lift some dishes to help clean off the table.
“Nope, this is my work,” Granny says with a possessive edge to her voice.
My hands have been slapped so I will know my place around here. I’ll have to work my way into her heart. In the meantime, I go to my room to get ready for my trip to Dream Slopes. Once inside, I see Guacamole nosing around the handbag that I had left on the floor. “Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, scooping it up. I have to keep everything out of his reach, or he’ll hurt himself.
Which reminds me. I haven’t told Mitch about Guacamole yet. Good grief. He doesn’t know about my iguana. He probably won’t mind, but an iguana is hardly a normal household pet. He also doesn’t know I can’t ski. The man will throw me out. I have to tell him. And soon.
The cold air stings my cheeks as I purchase my ski ticket at Dream Slopes and head for the entrance. My fingertips hide in my gloves and tingle from the chill.
Skiers and alpine trees dot the mountainside, giving the scene a winter wonderland feel to it. The sky boasts a vibrant blue with only a smattering of shredded clouds drifting lazily along. God creates the most incredible color. I take a satisfying breath. Before leaving the B and B, I changed into my new purple ski suit, new gold-colored coat, gold-and-purple stretchy band around my head and matching ski gloves—complete with the leather strip for grabbing the rope tow. I feel quite the skier. My snow boots keep my feet warm as I trudge through the snow toward the rental building.
I could get into this. In fact, this is downright fun. The air invigorates my spirit, and I’m convinced I’ve done the right thing in taking this job. If I were back in Tumbleweed, I’d be in a stuffy old building, standing in front of a class of rowdy fifth graders, trying to make my voice be heard in hopes of teaching them a lesson or two.
I take a deep breath of the mountain air and feel thankful down to my toes. I think there’s something to this whole mountaintop experience thing.
Once inside the rental building, I have to fill out some sort of card, giving my height, weight, experience as a skier, that type of thing. I’m not real excited about telling my weight to a total stranger. I mean, social security number is one thing, but weight? Anyway, the young woman looks nice enough, so I figure I can trust her not to spread the news.
She directs me to the next person, who looks over the card and looks at me as though I’ve lied about the weight thing. I didn’t fudge, not even a little bit. I figure I’ll never see these people again. Who cares if they know I’m not a size two? It’s obvious anyway. With all these winter wraps on, almost everyone could be a candidate for plus-size clothes.
The woman directs me to the ski boots and then tells me how to proceed to get my skis. I admit it. I’m excited. This is totally out of character for me. Not the excited part, but the stepping out and doing something out of the ordinary. I mean, I enjoy a challenge, adventure, all that, but within the confines of my safety bubble. But away from home? Away from what I know and hold dear? That’s a completely new adventure for me. A bit risky. Kind of scary and invigorating all at the same time.
I spot my ski boot size and pick up a pair that seem to match the weight of a cement truck. What do they put into these things? How can I possibly stand up in them? Deep breath, Gwen.
I find an empty spot on a nearby bench, sit down and pluck off my snow boots. Then I shrug on the ski boots. I strap them tightly around my ankles, and I wonder if my legs will turn purple. I’ll never know since I’m wearing purple pants. I look around to make sure no one is watching, and then I attempt to stand. Success. I don’t even wobble—okay, maybe a little. Dragging my feet along, I slog over to the ski station with all the grace of Igor.
A middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and large, brown-framed glasses greets me with a smile. I hand her my little paper with the pertinent information. She reads it, then walks over to a row of skis, and lifts a pair from the slats. I could have brought my own skis, but I want to see how they do things in the rental building and all, so I decide to play the tourist for now. She then goes over and retrieves a set of poles and brings everything to me. “Here you go,” she says brightly.
“Thank you.” I almost fall over with the awkwardness of the skis, the poles and the heavy boots. I smile my apology and trudge out of the way. I have to not only stay up in these boots, but I have to carry all this stuff?
I like challenges, I like challenges, I repeat over in my mind.
Finally, I make my way through the exit and step into the bright sunshine once again. My heart feels lighter, despite my concrete boots.
I see some workers standing nearby and manage to approach them. “I’m interested in a private lesson. Who would I talk to about that?”
A dark-haired man in his thirties with chin stubble and a glint in his eye smiles brightly. “I can help you with that,” he says. He takes my credit card to pay for the lesson and, before I can blink, we begin.
The good news is the bunny slope is small, so my vertigo and fear of heights should be at a minimum. However, five minutes into the lesson, it becomes apparent to me that I’m in over my head.
I’m at Bliss Village, on top of a mountain—well, a hill on the mountain, but I’m at a ski resort, mind you, attempting to ski. That’s right. Me. Gwen Sandler, wearing a pair of skis and actually considering going downhill in them.
Would somebody please call 911? I think an alien life form has taken over my body.
Chapter Four
My first trip up the rope tow nearly scares the living daylights out of me. I had visions of a gentle ride up a nice little hill. Um, no. Picture me grabbing hold of a rough, thick rope, being jerked forward and hanging on for dear life. I am convinced my grasp on said rope is the only thing standing between me and the afterlife.
Still, about halfway up the slope, I have to admit a sense of accomplishment overtakes me. When the wind hits my face, I feel like a kid on a bike who raises her arms from the handlebars and says, “Hey, look at me!” I feel so alive.
But when I see the top of the hill coming toward me at breakneck speed, I realize that could all change in a heartbeat.
Before I can consider what to do, I reach the top and let go in a flash, causing my backside to crash down with a thud. My instructor, whose name is Greg, skis up behind me.
Despite the pain, I laugh for a moment, figuring this is all part of the learning process.
“That’s all right, Gwen. You did a great job,” he says with encouragement.
I scramble to get up. Greg stares at me. I struggle once again to rise, my arms growing weaker by the minute, and nothing happens. With my eyes, I plead to him for help, but he continues to stare back at me. I’m at a definite disadvantage here, but once I get all this stuff off, he’d better run.
“Keep your skis perpendicular to the slope, put your poles to the side and push yourself up,” Greg says.
Easy for him to say. I strive to do that, but somehow in all the grunting and moving, my skis get turned. By the time I get myself up, I wobble a couple of times, glance at Greg, who is exchanging a smile with a pretty skier standing close by, and before I know it, my instability thrusts me forward. I go sailing down the slope, arms and poles waving wildly in the air, my legs splitting so far apart, I could win a national cheerleading competition. My scream punctuates the air and people scramble to get out of my way. It seems an eternity, but I zip to the end of the slope and plop hard upon the ground, my derriere growing intensely uncomfortable by now.
People around me stare, point and laugh. Two thoughts come to mind.