Dreading winter is a familiar character trait in many of my friends, work colleagues and mild acquaintances. As the cold November rain (thanks Axel) turns to fluffy December snow, and the fluffy December snow turns to the January bitter wind and so on, the chirping begins about a season that happens every year. Seriously, it does.
Sure this particular winter was so bizarre in its harmlessness. Very few mornings have I strolled into the winter air and coughed with the frosty inhale, or shudder from toe to crown as the wind punched and kicked me until I located the confines of the warm subway air.
So the chirping was minimal, in fact, people seemed downright happy this winter did not attack with the same ferocity of winters past. Now, here is the mild irony, this was the year that I decided to take up skiing. Now when I say take up, I don’t mean this was the first year I slapped on a pair of skis and started bombing down the hill. During my tumultuous tween and adolescent years, before the easy breezy hot knife era (oh karma, please be kind) I was lucky enough to be trotted to the southern Ontario hills and provided lessons to learn the art of downhill skiing. I was never that good, never a double black diamond kind of dude, but I managed to get to the bottom with both anterior cruciate ligaments still intact.
And then it stopped. My Olympic dream dashed because I wanted to hang around in my best friend’s smokey garage on the weekends instead of farming deep pow on a blue bird. Fast forward 24 years – last year – and here I was sitting in the ski hill cafeteria playing Word Mole while Tasman, Hudson and Steph were out on the slopes enjoying themselves.
This year, it all changed. After selling my kidney on the black market, I was able to afford ski equipment and joined my beautiful family on the slopes. Every Sunday we head to a hill just an hour north of Toronto and while our boys are in lessons, Steph and I enjoy both the carving down the mountain and the solace of being on a chair lift without having to wipe anyone’s nose or put together a peanut butter and banana roll up.
Oh red cheeks!
Hud getting ready for his mock race
Today was our last day of the eight week session. Finally the snow has turned from mashed potatoes to crisp, hard packed groomed, grabby snow. The sun was out in the morning and the sky was the colour blue you only see in winter. Both the boys got medals and had a blast culminating their ski lessons.
The financial commitment to skiing is huge. We sacrifice vacations, household upgrades and foie gras and lobster poutine nights to make sure the boys are exposed to this winter ritual. It gets worse next year as Tasman moves up a level. But on that lift today, Steph and I were really happy we could do this for the boys. They deserve it. And they never complained about winter to begin with.
And sacrifice is what its all about sometimes isn’t it?
You are right, Jason – the financial commitment is far from insignificant. If I wasn’t so allergic to winter to start with, I might have had more fun with downhill skiing (never enjoyed it much) but the time and expense of spending every weekend on the hill with two kids sometimes feels downright rapacious. We’ll likely look into it in another year or so though. *Maybe*
Good post!!