Thankful
So, Thanksgiving. Let's pretend it hasn't taken me another 6 weeks to write something. Back to November we go.
It snowed the week before Thanksgiving - not much, but enough to open a few chairs at Squaw; enough so that I contemplated doing a round-trip on Friday just to hit the slopes; enough so that I wasted about a half day on Thursday pulling my ski stuff together and trying on my outfits. But seeing as how I was headed up to Tahoe with friends just 5 days later all I could do was hope the snow lasted until I arrived.
It didn't. Unless you count rain on snow. Which I don't. Except in New Jersey.
And so my visions of skisteria quickly dampened, I settled into a more relaxed Thanksgiving pace - one bountiful with food, drink and entertaining activities. We ate and we danced and we drank and we laughed; we hot-tubbed under the stars and took walks along the lake; we played Taboo and we played ping pong and I read every single magazine I brought up that weekend, in addition to the most excellent Rob Lowe auto-biog, Stories I Only Tell My Friends.
So of course, the moral of the story: sometimes you forget what you're missing when you get so zeroed in. (See also: My adventures with trail running) Without skiing, I went to a yoga class (with a live DJ!) with Andrea at the base of Squaw and jumped into Donner Lake with John and Dave. I ran hill repeats and shoveled almost none existent snow. With little-to-no snow on the ground to taunt me with what I'd thought I'd be dying to miss, I was relaxed and free to partake.
Of course, all that relaxation (some may call it excessive merriment) left me wiped on Sunday so that when I blew past an exit at about 87 mph headed home - and the guy who pulled me over was so nice, almost apologetic, and mid-Western-y kind of cute - I could only smile calmly and accept that it was just my time. Even better - and maybe he was flirting in his own Yuba County type way - he put me down as going 75 mph.
Thank you sweet patrol guy. Thank you John and Andrea. Thank you Thanksgiving.
It snowed the week before Thanksgiving - not much, but enough to open a few chairs at Squaw; enough so that I contemplated doing a round-trip on Friday just to hit the slopes; enough so that I wasted about a half day on Thursday pulling my ski stuff together and trying on my outfits. But seeing as how I was headed up to Tahoe with friends just 5 days later all I could do was hope the snow lasted until I arrived.
It didn't. Unless you count rain on snow. Which I don't. Except in New Jersey.
And so my visions of skisteria quickly dampened, I settled into a more relaxed Thanksgiving pace - one bountiful with food, drink and entertaining activities. We ate and we danced and we drank and we laughed; we hot-tubbed under the stars and took walks along the lake; we played Taboo and we played ping pong and I read every single magazine I brought up that weekend, in addition to the most excellent Rob Lowe auto-biog, Stories I Only Tell My Friends.
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| Donner Lake with Alison and Andrea; photo JVW |
Of course, all that relaxation (some may call it excessive merriment) left me wiped on Sunday so that when I blew past an exit at about 87 mph headed home - and the guy who pulled me over was so nice, almost apologetic, and mid-Western-y kind of cute - I could only smile calmly and accept that it was just my time. Even better - and maybe he was flirting in his own Yuba County type way - he put me down as going 75 mph.
Thank you sweet patrol guy. Thank you John and Andrea. Thank you Thanksgiving.
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