This is the winter of my dreams. I love the cold. I love the snow. But what is bringing me down faster than a good pair of Rossignols on a black diamond is that no one will play in the snow with me. My friends say they’re too old. My kids say they’re too old.
I was an avid skier for most of my life. It’s been five years, or more, since I’ve skied. Because apparently, it is not all downhill from here for most late-50 Boomers, who seem to think we’re too old to do anything but bemoan the snow. After all, it’s a slippery slope just walking out the door for us old-timers. Phooey!
While the huge group of reliable ski buddies from the past has dwindled down to practically zero due to age, illness, physical incapacitation, and even death, I have been know to beg anyone who seems somewhat game:
“We’ll ski easy (with helmets!) for an two hour or two, and then we can apres ski for the rest of the day.”
But since I’ve recently moved within walking distance to one of the best sledding hills in New Jersey, and because I can potentially hit the hill while it’s still a virgin, I’ve decided to take the sled by the (plastic) reins and be prepared for the next snowfall.
I bought two steerable Snow Seats (good for anyone over six), and I will head out solo next snowfall if I have to. I’ve accepted that it will be without the shared adrenaline rush, the (“Did you see that!”) double wipeouts;face plants. No getting airborne side-by-side.
And when it’s all over, I guess I’ll have to learn how to drink that hot-and-spiked anything by myself, and rehash, in my mind only, how much fun I had, and the absolute joy that playing in the snow brings.