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Now it was my turn.
“Well, here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself and set off after her.
Immediately, I ended up face-first in the snow, sliding endlessly toward her at a mile an hour. I tried to force my elbows under me, but I just ended up slipping and falling again. An employee of the resort was by my side in seconds, helping me to my feet as I tried to laugh it off. Ahead of me, I could see Kristen, blissfully unaware of anything happening to me, still crouched in the same position as before, still going about a mile an hour down the slope.
I managed to get down to her, slowing myself down by crossing the skis like they taught me, and she looked over briefly before snapping her attention back to the snow ahead of her.
“You look like you did well,” she said sarcastically.
“Fell right on my face,” I said.
“That’s why I am using the don’t go fast strategy,” she said. “Not as exhilarating, but no snow in my bra.”
“You have like twelve layers on,” I said. “I know because I watched you get dressed.”
“Didn’t want to risk it,” she said. “By all means, you can zoom down there if you like.”
“I’m not going without you,” I said. “But I will say this. The faster we get down this hill, the faster we can take off these skis, admit our defeat, and spend the rest of the weekend in a hot tub, eating room service.”
She seemed to mull that over a bit and then made the tiniest adjustment to her skis, separating them ever so much so they weren’t completely lopped over each other.
“Fair enough,” I said, copying her.
We made it down the hill in record time, assuming the record is longest possible trek down. I was pretty sure we were lapped by a couple of children and some little old grannies.
As we stomped into the clubhouse, trying to shake off the cold, and in my case, snow, Kristen went directly to the bar. By the time I had gotten my coat off and hanging on the wall by the fireplace, along with my scarf and gloves, she came back with two cups with steam coming out of the tops.
“I thought you were going to get beer or wine or something,” I said.
“Try it,” she said.
I took a sip.
“Oh, that is a lot of whiskey.”
“Hot Toddy,” she said. “Mom used to make them for me when my throat was sore and I was staying home from school.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“Young,” she said. “But it helped soothe my throat, was warm and wonderful, and I slept like the dead twenty minutes later.”
“I bet,” I said. “This is really good.”
“It is,” she said. “You know what’s not good?”
“What?”
“Us at skiing,” she said.
I laughed.
“We are not experts,” I admitted. “But we have two more days here before we fly out to Chicago, then home.”
“And you plan on becoming an expert by then?” she asked, a grin spreading wide across her face.
“I’ll be an expert at something,” I said. “But I do plan on skiing at least once more.”
“Have at it,” she said. “And don’t think I didn’t catch that.”
