If you haven't noticed by now, I am quite the athelete.
I've always been "un-athletic". Actually, I don't think that term even comes close to describing how incredibly awkward I am. From my inability to climb that stupid rope in elementary school gym class (ie. Torture And Ridicule For The Very Young) to my feeble attempts at downhill skiing late in my teens, I manage to discover new and dramatic ways to physically embarass myself on numerous occasions.
I mean, how many people do you know that have given THEMSELVES a black eye?
Yup, I'll admit it. I did.
During a high school outing to Mount Agassiz nearly 30 years ago, I performed an ill-advised maneuver attempting to evade a mogul. Planting my ski pole atop said bump, it simply bounced off and the hilt ricochetted swiftly back into my face. (Around... around the mogul, dummy. Not OVER it....duh)
With a direct hit -- through my ski goggles mind you, into my right eye.
Needless to say, the long bus ride home was spent with a cold can of Coke covering my eye socket. This served two purposes, actually:
1) It helped keep the swelling down
2) It also afforded me cover to hide from the stares and snickering of my fellow classmates.
Not to be undone in the realm of Stupid Ski Tricks, the next year I actually defied gravity and time itself at that same resort. Brashly waving aside offers to join the rest of the class in lessons before tackling the "big hill", I headed up the slope.
Hah! I DATED a Ski Patrol! I could ski!!!
As I descended, I happened to notice that very same class aligned in a neat row about halfway down the slope. Becoming much too cocky for my Severe Awkwardness Syndrome, I lost concentration, crossed my tips and did a PERFECT somersault.
In slow motion.
I even remember seeing the clear blue sky between my skis and thinking Hmmm... that's probably not a good thing...
But the pièce de résistance was my landing.
Smack dab in front of the entire class and instructor.
Who proceeded to applaud. And cheer.
So I gathered up what was left of my skis, poles and various clothing items strewn about a Maureen-shaped imprint in the snow, and gingerly trudged down the remainder of the hill in those Frankenstein-esque ski boots.
Luckily, my only injury this time was a case of Severely Fractured Ego.
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