When I first moved here, I skied at least three times a week. I was a young wife to a workaholic husband whose job provided me with a ski pass, free food, and gobs of money to spend. I ate excellent restaurant food, went skiing all the time, and spent lots of time buying the latest hand-knit baby Alpaca sweater and crying to my friends how my (ex) husband was never home.
Fast-forward a few years: I was a young divorcee with very little money but a college ID that got me discounted lift tickets. Then I got remarried and pregnant in the same year and because Olie was a March baby, I was pregnant during the winter, which meant I sat out the season. Eventually, Madhubby and I settled into a crazy, religious town three hours from ski resorts and Bubba was born in October; another ski-less winter.
When we moved back to our town, we enrolled Lizzie in ski club through her school, which met at Keystone every weekend for four weeks. Then, she took lessons at our favorite winter resort (sorry, tourists, no link to that one because I want to keep it a secret), which helped her get her ski legs pretty quickly, but I still wasn't going skiing. I was just shuttling Lizzie to lessons - and I was pretty bummed to tell the truth.
Recently, I decided there's really no reason why I shouldn't be able to ski at least forty days a year. I'm not pregnant, we can sort of afford it (with all the deals for locals), and the snow gods have been smiling on us. So today, I dropped the kids at school, headed for the high country and was making zig-zags down the mountain with a handful of other locals before some of you had your morning cup of chai. Eight inches of new powder and no lift lines. My turns were pizza-like at first and I stuck to the bunny hill for awhile, but I eventually found my way to parallel turns and more difficult terrain.
I left with no fuss when it was time to pick the kids up from school because it was eight degrees and snowing and my feet were getting cold. A quick ride down the mountain, a stop at Whole Foods for some Corn Poblano chowder and I was in car line with fifteen minutes to spare. I love this place.
*sans nervous breakdown