Snowboarding makes my legs feel like ouch

pic by:ZenMe
The only way you can tell this isn't me is because I stupidly forgot to take my camera. I'm a jerk.

I just got back from snowboarding and it was lovely. I'm occasionally gripped with fear of the new, which generally means it's time to go and try something new, and while I've been snowboarding before, it changes constantly, there's real threat of breaking important somethings, and the details of getting there and getting back could be enough to put me off.

On the other hand, I take snowboarding on Dr. King's birthday seriously. Why, you might reasonably ask? Is it because I think an expensive, elitist sport is a good way to recollect the remarkable deeds of a remarkable man? Is it because I perversely see echoes of Dr. King's dream in a sport where a large, white, immovable force manages to knock people down based solely on merit, not color? Perhaps. However, the reason I'm copping to is that I got seriously bad news on an MLK weekend two years ago. Let me explain.

I don't believe in Jesus, Santa Claus, the singularity, el chupacabra, or trickle-down-economics. And I particularly don't believe in superstition, so it was with some surprise I acknowledged that I'd arrived at the (fanciful) conclusion that the ghost of Dr. King had killed my father. Dad died over an MLK weekend while I was on a much anticipated ski-weekend with K-- and some friends, but there's probably more explaining to do. I'll go on.

Paola had the use of her mother's cottage near a ski resort, so we shot up on Saturday only to find that there was no snow for miles thanks to all the goddamn rain. Already Dr. King was thwarting us. Overnight, however, it snowed enough that we hopefully called the resort to see if there was enough to ski on.

Oh yeah, snow's great! Grand, we'll pop right over. The electricity's out though. What? Yeah, the electricity is out for miles and the resort's on part of the grid that won't be coming back until the 5^th of never. At this point I was joking that Dr. King didn't want us skiing on his day of memorial and maybe we should go look for a local habitat for humanity chapter.

Rather than grumble though, we played cards and I amused the ladies by chopping firewood - something not often seen in Manhattan I guess. Maybe there'd be a chance to ski the next day before driving hours back to NYC. Stupid MLK!

That night was when I got the call about my dad though. Everyone who was there was great (thanks to K--, Paola, Angie, and Peluce, Paola's dog who, almost immediately upon seeing my distress, stopped crapping in the living room).

Obviously, snowboarding wasn't going to happen, nor was it the most important thing at the time by a long shot, but I still added it to the bottom of the list of things I felt the universe owed me. Now every year I try to go snowboarding on the MLK weekend. I don't actually think that Dr. King ruined that weekend and caused my dad to die (that would be certifiably crazy - like believing that God flooded New Orleans to express rage at gay people or something).

Still, I take going skiing/snowboarding seriously each year so far. It occurred to me today as I was driving that perhaps it's because I'm a natural contrarian and I rankle at being compelled in any way.

After all, it's not uncommon after receiving seriously bad news to associate elements of how you receive it or where you are with the news itself. Sort of PTSD light. Your brain connects things with the moment of huge emotional shock just in case it's skiing, or MLK weekends that's really the culprit (your brain sometimes isn't all that smart). I know of at least two people who got late night calls telling them of friends or family dying unexpectedly and for a long time afterwards hearing a phone ring late at night raised heart rates and caused irrational agitas. This even though for years before, a late night call was at worst a wrong number and at best a booty call.

I think perhaps I go skiing now because I'll be damned if I'm going to let bad associations put me off ski-weekends for the rest of my life. See, I'm a stubborn cuss at heart. And actually, it is also a good way to remember my dad. He liked a laugh and was fairly fearless about new experiences, and he would have probably given me a good shake if he thought fear of the new, or travel details, was stopping me from enjoying myself.

Patrick, if you're reading this, I didn't break my arm for the daft sod though.