One of the last times Hubby, the kids and I went skiing, we decided the last run of the day would be down a slope we had been wanting to try for a while.
Going up in the lift for that final run, we were talking excitedly about how we would shortly be schussing through the woods on a nice, quiet trail – no crowds. We were so excited, in fact, that we completely missed all of the snowboard half-pipe and orange construction barrier nonsense going on down below.
So when we got off the lift, the signs announcing a pro snowboard competition came as a complete shock. And the additional signs indicating we should watch for “trail changes” rested very uneasily in my heart.
Be afraid. Be very afraid. BEWARE THE LAST RUN OF THE DAY!!! BEWARE!!!!!
So we started off, trying not to chum in our mouths (ok, the chum-control might have just been on my part, no one else seemed…quite…that anxious) and sho’ nuf – eventually we see the trail we WANTED to take – ‘cept now it’s jam packed with a bunch of outdoor bike racks that the snowboarders seemed to be using on purpose. And we? We are directed by temporary plywood signs spray painted with arrows which eventually led us down a series of frightening death plummets.
And lately…a lot lately, this escape-from-scary-mountain has become a metaphor for my life. With my job loss, my totaled car, the obligations of raising two kids with crookedy teeth, a dog that costs a MILLION bucks allasudden, I oftentimes feel like I’m standing at an icy mountain traverse, sick with fear because getting down that hill-I-never-expected-to-be-on is waaaaay beyond my skill level. And my thighs are shaky and burning from the strain. In fact, I’m tempted to walk back UP the mountain with my skiis ON just so I can get back to where the turn went wrong.
The only thing that’s different in Metaphor Land? Is that there’s no nervous vomit on my ski jacket. Yet.