Just Call Me Julia

Mancuso, not Child.

I have a new obsession. This happens frequently. Last week it was mangoes. This week it’s skiing. Bad timing, I know, since it’s March 8 and 45 degrees outside. But I have a feeling this will be a longterm obsession. At least 3 weeks, maybe even a whole year.

In a fit of “oh-my-god-our-first-Adirondack-winter-is-almost-over-and-we-haven’t-gone-skiing-yet,” last Friday we decided to take a trip to Titus Mountain for an afternoon of downhill fun. I had my doubts, since I have some pretty scarring memories from skiing as a kid. But Dave really, really wanted to go, so like a good life partner, I agreed.

I’m so glad I did, because it was pretty much the most fun I’ve had in recent memory.

I figured it had been 20 years (two decades!) since I had last stood at the top of a run, pointed my skis straight away, and thought, “Please, oh please, don’t let me die here. Not today.” Heavy thoughts for a 10-year-old.

Did I mention I kind of hated skiing as a kid? It was frustrating, often scary, and for this San Diego kid, exceptionally COLD. It probably didn’t help that I had an aversion to group activities as a child (some things never change), so I pitched a fit every time someone suggested I take a lesson. I was a delightful little rugrat. So, since my parents were non-skiers, I really hated lessons, and all my friends were light years ahead of me due to a consistent diet of family ski trips, I was left to figure things out on my own. You can imagine how that went.

Twenty years later, I tried to put these lingering memories aside as a new generation of tiny little shredders zipped and zoomed and swooshed down the mountain as I watched. I was intimated. With a nervous laugh, I awkwardly made my way to the front of the lift line, plopped unceremoniously into the swiftly moving chair, held on dearly during the short trip to the top of the bunny slope, and concentrated on not falling as I oh-so-gracefully slithered my way out of the still moving chair. (Why don’t they stop those things for people like me?) After a deep breath, I pointed my skis back down to earth. And you know what? I did it! Without falling, without running into anyone, without knocking down trees with my face, and without (I think) looking like a complete freak.

The rest of the day was a piece o’ cake. We cruised the easy runs for a while, worked our way up to the blues, and by the end of the day I felt ready to tackle a dreaded Black Diamond. Why not? I was comfortable, in control, and having FUN. My 10-year-old self would have been proud. Dave, however, suggested we end the day on a positive note and save the Black Diamonds for next time (or, you know, maybe the time after that). He was right, of course. Hate when that happens.

But even though he cut my fun short, I had had enough to hook me for good. Or at least for the next three weeks.

Lookout, Whiteface, I’m coming for you.