I have an astonishing number of ski gloves. Not an astonishing number of PAIRS of ski gloves. While other people are searching the far recesses of their dryers for missing socks, I rummage through closets for left-hand, pink gloves, or the blue circa 1980 right-handed glove.
Believe me, I have no issues whatsoever in wearing mismatched anything, least of all gloves. Still, it would be nice to have an honest-to-goodness pair.
I found a pair.
boots, check. Skis, check, check, check, check, check. Poles, check. kneepads and goggles, check and check. face mask, check. Hat. Hat? HAT...! ~more closet rummaging~ okay, we'll call that wad of yarn a hat.
Long underwear, ski jacket, down jacket, ski pants, packed.
Self, say hello to your new winter wardrobe.
In other news, this also begins the long dark winter of solitude, of widowhood. The Mountain Man is a patroller and they're feeling a little short-handed this year. He'll be working. A lot. My only hope at seeing him is to re-enact a little fantasy of mine where I get injured on the slopes (nothing major), and he comes to my rescue. ~sound of dramatic music~
Except, I already know him, so the romantic gaze into each other's eyes is more likely to be followed by me screaming, "don't touch me!!! no no nonononononono, don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme don'ttouchme !" ... and he sees a woman who looks like a Michelin Man who robbed a dumpster for his attire, and well... that's the end of romance as we know it.
Instead I will go up to the hill and ski around and hope to catch glimpses of my man in black, in his patrol gear, and try to suppress the butterflies and the oncoming swoon I feel every time... unless it'd get me a little mouth-to-mouth?
No comments:
Post a Comment