That said, riding sans S does come with a few side effects. One is certainly that I miss the time with him, the inevitable memories that would have been made, racing and falling and racing some more. The other is that I am a lone female rider, a sitting duck for awkward situations with the opposite sex. Three such situations have already occurred, which I will explicate here.
Is this post an attempt to get S back on the slopes? Maybe. Is it all in good fun? Most completely, definitely so.
The mountainside Lothario
Everyone knows that I am a beginner snowboarder. I make that abundantly clear when I talk to people about it, and it is abundantly clear when I am riding, just trying to stay upright, and maybe practicing a turn or two. This is why I was laser-focused on front side turns when I rode down the intermediate hill last week.
I will often literally talk to myself when turning, because it’s new to me, saying things like “commit! (to the turn),” and “girl…” as in, “girl, if you don’t make your heels plant down like they need to and move your hips into the turn, you’ll have another thing coming!” This would be highly embarrassing if I were not so hell-bent on actually getting better, to the dismissal of any dignity out there to begin with.
But imagine how surprised I was when someone else started talking to me on the mountain, while I was in this uber-lame-o state. As he passes me, and I am completely unaware of him, I hear, “You harrr…” going down the mountain. “Huh?!” I ask, assuming he’s telling me I am an uber-lame-o, or that my bindings have come off, or that I am about to fly into the netting on the far side of the trail. You know, some sort of comment that would make sense, and that I would need to hear pronto.
Nope, the second time I hear it more clearly. “You’re hot!” says the young man as he veers off to the terrain park on the other side of the mountain. To which I say, “Uhhh, tha...” not finishing that word, because 1) he is already out of earshot, and 2) because I am not sure I really want to thank him.
See, the mountainside Lothario is 12 years old. I mean, that’s just a guess, but the boy is shorter than me and wearing what is noticeably a child’s coat. I should call his mother.
The androgynous chair mate
You might assume that awkwardness between the opposite sex and I might occur only going down the mountain, but in that assumption, you would be wrong. Enter androgynous chairlift companion, who is slight of build, with pretty, shoulder-length auburn hair, who politely allows me to share a chair going up the mountain, even though this is much ill-advised. I’ve watched this person glide down the mountain and admired the skills so gracefully displayed. And yet, as I tell said rider that I might fall off the chairlift (disclaimer fully necessary), said rider says, “That’s okay, I’ll just ride off.”
It’s at this point, because of the vocal intonation, that I realize the girl with the pretty hair, with whom I am about to get on the chairlift, may be a boy. Another frickin’ 12-year-old boy, most likely. But I do not know for sure. And this shouldn’t matter, except that, based on his/her former friendliness and demonstrated skillset, I had just been about to ask her how long she’d been riding, and if she had any tips for women’s riding, seeing as our bodies are different and all of that.
Oh. My. Can you imagine? So while boy/girl/most likely boy had no idea, we rode up the chairlift in silence, with me half-mortified and half-sneaking glance of his/her profile as we went up the mountain to see if I could “tell.”
The date I was stood up for
My second time on the mountain, I spent most of the day at the beginner hill, doing basic falling leaf patterns on the snow, working on my edge control. I probably looked (and felt) like a worse rider than I really am, because I was being really hard on myself and demanding perfection on all of the most basic moves.
The beginner hill is reached by a magic carpet, with a guy or a lady standing at both the top and the bottom of the carpet, spotting the skiers and riders. On this particular day, one of the spotters was a dude who, each time I rode up the hill, would say something very suave, as to get to know me better. Most of the people who work at the mountain are awesome and friendly, but this guy was friendly and also, I got that vibe from him; he’s the only one who introduced himself to me, formally, and tried to get personal information from me – nothing creepy – just my name, and if I had a season pass and other familiarizing questions (but not if I had a boyfriend, because I suppose then that would be creepy).
As I got ready for my last run on the beginner hill, I told him to have a good night, to which he wondered whether I’d be back on Friday. Kind of like a, “What are you doing Friday night?” question, except again, not as creepy. I told him I would probably be back (season pass and all), and he said he’d be riding that day and he could teach me some stuff.
I show up on Friday and go for quite a few runs before I realize something. I have no idea what this person looks like, with whom I have a most-likely not creepy (I think) snowboard instruction date. What do I remember about him? A) He had a name tag on, because he was on the clock, B) He had a brownish coat on, and C) He was an average-to-tall Caucasian male. Finally, not a 12-year-old, but essentially the profile of 45% of all other persons snowboarding that day (or any day). I have no idea who or where he is, even as I scan the mountain and see a handful of people he could be, everywhere I look. I realize too that I am wearing a different jacket than the prior day, and that I am spending most of my time on the intermediate hill, looking much more polished of a rider than the last time I saw now-nametag-less non-creeper.
No one approaches me, and I approach no one. I consider myself stood up, and I am not the least bit upset about it (and a little relieved).
Concluding remarks
There are potentially some lessons to be learned from my experiences with romance, very loosely defined, while snowboarding. One is that snowboarders, overall, are a really friendly lot. Everyone’s been very nice to me, in their own special way, I suppose.
But another, more poignant lesson, is that snowboarders cannot see each other’s faces. Learn this, and all else makes perfect sense.
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