The White Russian

I made two fateful mistakes that weekend. The first was agreeing to go on that trip. The second was, well more about that later.

My two best friends from college, Liz and Mary had invited me to a fun filled weekend at a ski resort not too far from home. It was going to be great fun they said. It was going to be a relaxing weekend full of hot tubs, cozy fire places, nights of hot toddy’s at the bar, and fantastic skiing. I agreed to go.

I had made it abundantly clear to my friends that I didn’t ski, but that I would be quite content spending my weekend in the chalet, sitting by the radiant heat of the fire with a warm, spiked adult beverage in constant flow from the bar. They reluctantly agreed to my not skiing, but with an exchange of glances, smirks, that made me a little wary.

When we arrived on that Friday evening, we all decided that a trip to the chalet’s lounge was in order. So, garbed in our appropriate snow bunny attire, we headed to the lounge. It was filled with people laughing and reveling in the fun they were going to have the next day, on the slopes that could quite possibly kill them, to be sure. Liz, Mary, and I spent the evening re-telling stories from our college days and pointing out the handsome guys that might be eligible to flirt with. The evening ended with us stumbling to our shared luxury suite, acting like the trio of school girls we once were.

The next morning, Liz and Mary were eager to hit the slopes. I, being the only person with any sense in my head, elected to make my way to the lounge, that had a magnificent view of the ski lifts and the going’s on of the people with a death wish (in my view anyway), putting on their skis and preparing themselves for a day of skiing.

I ordered a White Russian and sat by the enormous, stone fireplace watching Liz and Mary putting on their ski’s and heading for the menacing, swinging, ski lift. So, one White Russian turned into two, then three, and I was quite the happy camper.

After a couple of hours, Liz and Mary returned from the slopes, red cheeked and full of new stories of their adventures on the black diamond ski runs. I feigned interest at their stories at first, then, bolstered by my trio of drinks, began to feel a bit ashamed that I had sat idly by as they had had fun.

Now, for the second mistake I alluded to earlier. Emboldened by my semi drunken state, I told my friends that why not, I’ll rent some skis and just have a bit of fun on the bunny hills. Hell, they looked relatively safe for someone that had never skied. This is where my nightmare began.

After being fitted for my rented skis, I found myself standing by the instructor, waiting for my turn on the small slope. I recall thinking that, that slope didn’t look that small. It was finally my turn to push off and head down the hill. Quite bravely, I swished down the hill and made it to the bottom with no broken bones or severe cuts and bruises. I was a pro! Elated at my achievement, I decided to celebrate with my friend, the incomparable White Russian.

After a while, Liz and Mary returned from the slopes to find me, drink in hand, in front of my other friend, the great stone fireplace. I announced to them that I had mastered the fundamentals of skiing, and that I would accompany them to a run that was a bit bigger. They were surprised, but elated that I had conquered my fear and was ready to hit the slopes with them.

So, we headed to the ski lift that would take us to the top of the hill. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. What on earth was I thinking? That lift was just an accident waiting to happen. Surely it would get stuck or a cable would break and I would plunge to my death. But, summoning my courage, I got on the contraption that would most assuredly crash.

But, I made it to the top and was still in one piece! Liz and Mary came to my side and told me it was time to go down the hill, just after I had narrowly escaped a certain tragedy on the way up. At that point, my liquid courage evaporated like a pot of boiling water. I found myself at the top of this hill next to a couple of friends that were completely crazy.

I knew I was going to die. Thoughts of my loved ones ran through my mind. How would they take the news of my ill fated trip? I was filled with remorse as I looked at the bottom of this hill in which I was going to tumble down like a rag doll. This snowy, crowded, slope from hell.

Knees buckling, my heart pounding, my so called friend Liz gave me a little nudge and I was on my way down.

Terror engulfed me. It was all I could do to remember my lesson from only two hours ago. But it was little help. Oh my God, there’s a tree! It was just a sapling, but to me it represented a cracked skull with internal bleeding, at the very least a broken leg that at some point would have to be amputated. Another skier, my soon to not be friend Mary, whizzed by me twenty feet away. For the love of Pete, don’t get so close! We could collide at any moment!

Suddenly, by the grace of God, I found myself at the bottom of the hill that could have taken my life. I had made it! At that moment I wanted to kiss the ground, swear I would devote my life to God and become a nun, or give a couple of slaps to Liz and Mary.

But, I did none of those things. I just headed in for another White Russian. I had survived.