So I was home this year for Christmas and my brother, Soren, and I were up on the slopes of Aspen, tearing it up... and I'm using the pronunciation of the word "tearing" to mean crying. Muscles I forgot my body had came out of the woodwork and screamed at me "Can't you see you're dying!?" My lungs concured.
Towards the end of the day I was headed down towards the lift and had actually regained some of my pride from the top half of a very ugly pitch. The catwalk was certainly seeming more my speed, until I caught an edge and laid myself out in front of the two skiers who I had just visualized blowing by and "wooo!"-ing at really loudly, to look like I was a no-rules hot-rodding badass.
No such luck. My skis suddenly found a rut they really liked and nestled in nicely, sending me over my tips and rolling several yards further than my poles and gloves. I quickly lept up and brushed myself off. The snow on my head melted instantly from emabarrassment and the two skiers, who I'd just gone from hero to zero in front of, skied my poles down to me. They were both older gentlemen and seemed concerned.
"Wow," I said, trying to save some kind of face. "Boy, do I feel like an idiot."
The two men chuckled. The one carrying my poles handed them to me and said, "Oh don't worry about it. Could be worse. Jack's wife here just died of cancer."
Jack nodded and smiled. I decided to keep skiing.
