My husband attended a college that was in close proximity to the ski slopes. He scrimped and saved so he could purchase a discounted student ski pass. He’d grown up skiing on a regular basis at Mt. Baldy and Big Bear in Southern California. He loved the sport and was pretty good at it. (Snowboarding had not become a nationwide craze yet. Now he does both.)
Being a frugal freshman, he frequently went on ski dates with coeds who possessed passes. It was a cheap date, and he could show off his prowess on the slopes. Win-win. On one such date, he strutted around the ski lodge with the cockiness of a teenage boy, trying to impress his date with his smooth moves. She acted inexperienced and insecure. So, he helped her latch her ski boots and gallantly carried her skis to the chair lift. He figured that she was probably new to the sport and generously shared some helpful tips. When they arrived at the top of the hill, he confidently helped her exit the lift. He sidled up close and promised that he’d stay by her side, assuming that she was undoubtedly nervous.
They readied themselves at the start of the ski run and got into position. He smiled at her, preparing to share more words of wisdom before demonstrating his mad skills on the slopes. But before he could utter a word, she thrust her ski poles deep into the snow and pushed off, leaving him in her dust (or snow in this case). He watched, slack-jawed, as she expertly swished and slalomed downhill. He’d been had. Unbeknownst to my hubby, his date was a member of the ski team. She smoothly streaked down the shoot like greased lightning, snow spraying off the edges of her skis as she deftly cut through the powder. The tables had been turned. Instead of showing off to her, he struggled to keep up with her. The only consolation was that it could’ve been worse…he’d been humbled but not totally humiliated…like when he’d fallen off the ski lift during another ski date. But that’s a tale for another day.
