Officially, it’s spring—but I still find my thoughts on the winter. It’s not entirely surprising… There’s still snow on the ground. A slushy rain fell this evening while I was walking my favorite canine companion. And our heat is (mostly) still on.
But there’s another reason, too. On February 21, I had the distinct pleasure of making my way to the Berkshires, putting on a pair of boots and skis, grabbing some poles, and getting out on the snow for the first time in ages. I had attempted this sort of activity a few times in my early post-college years, albeit on a snowboard instead of skis. I can’t say that those experiences went well; in fact, I was pretty miserable both times, got badly bruised, and haven’t exactly been pining for it since.
But this time was different. At first, I had some trouble figuring out where my skis ended and began, but by the end of my lesson (which M was gracious enough to join me for), I was getting down the hill pretty well, making decent turns. I fell only once—in my first attempt to board the magic carpet to get back up the hill. I became infatuated with the sound and feeling of the skis’ edge against the snow, growing more sure of myself with each run. Every single time down was a blast. I couldn’t get enough.
I never did get around to riding the lift and skiing down a real trail; by the time I felt confident enough to make the attempt, our day was near its end, and I didn’t want to risk ending the trip on a bad note. Instead, I took a few more runs down the little hill before returning to the lodge with a grin on my face, my heart bursting with happiness.
We rounded out the day with a Guinness in the lounge before heading home. More snow was falling, and I was walking on air. A girl could get used to this. Too bad it’s spring.