We hit the snowy slopes of Niseko, Japan, in a ski resort called Hirafu a few weeks ago.
I said ‘hit’ there like I carved out my name in calligraphy in the snow whilst in my snow-goddess Winter of ’16 Louis Vuitton outfit, hair fluttering from beneath my chic helmet and lips pink from freshly applied lipstick stunning even the most experienced snow sports person, such was my lithe skiing ability. Yes. Maybe next time. Here’s what I actually looked like:
Slightly over weight Aussie wearing Winter of ’15 Aldi catalogue, making pizza shaped indents ALL THE WAY DOWN THE SLOPE that only the biggest snow groomer will get out in a please-go-around-me-slowly-because-I-may-explode-from-being-so-uncoordinated stance whilst windburn and the delightful red colour my nose has just before I get a cold sore tinted my tired face. So yes. Everyone was stunned by my general awfulness. Want to hear the best part? I got WORSE before the week ended.
But I didn’t care at all really because:
a) I was in JAPAN!
b) The kids were safely back at HOME thousands of kilometres away!
c) It was SNOWING!! Actual real live SNOW! Floating down on my HEAD and it did this EVERY DAY!
d) Mostly it was snowing and cloudy I could really only see about 100 metres in front of me and therefore my teensy weensy little brain ignored the fact that I was SKIING down a slope I’d probably have trouble WALKING down in Summer, but rather just got a bit nervous because “Oh it’s just this 100 metres that’s steep: the rest is easy pffft.”
Turns out I can actually ski, I’m equipped with a body to do it and I know how to do it and I can apply all of these things to actually do it which I did quite a few times over the week. However, on the three occassions the clouds and mist and snow parted and I could actually view the enormous mountain I was careening down, my brain screamed out “What The FAAAAAAARCK ARE YOU DOING??? YOU HAVE CHILDREN!!!!!!” and instead of the intermediate level I was on, I’d go right back to First Time On Skis and the snowplough/pizza way of being. It would then take a full three hours of toughing it out before I got my mind and skis right again (or it would start snowing and I couldn’t see anything which was actually even more helpful). And by then I need hot chocolate or beer so that was the end of that.
Of course it’s the fault of my children. Little toerags. Once they came out of my body and all my hormones decided to party together inside my body, I found it really difficult to do the life threatening things I used to do. Before children I could go to the beach, swim out beyond the six foot shore breakers and bob about in the sea by myself. Now I find it difficult to get beyond the white water, and I certainly won’t be getting any deeper than hip height. Same with skiing. Before kids it was exhilarating to try and hurtle down a steep slope (and this was in the days before helmets). Now just looking at the peak of a ski run from the bottom of the chair lift is enough to make me sick. WTF happened there? Something to do with your brain and hormones changing scientific research babies blah blah blah.
Bloody kids. I love them and all, but I’d also really like to ski and swim in the ocean and just be at the top of a building without getting sweaty palms and having disaster like thoughts about chair lift wires snapping and sharks and rips and some crazy with a bomb taking out the third floor and I have to get out of the building through a fire escape which is actually on fire. Because that’s what happens now.
I think I need a drink. Or therapy. Because everyone knows that giving up those kids is certainly not an option.