So I've been feeling pretty UNphysical since the c-section. (And by a little unphysical I mean I've done nothing that resembles exercise since a week or so before Mila was born.) So when Ross proposed that I come skiing with him, I thought it was sweet, but a little intimidating. Figured he'd just laugh at me the whole time anyway-- it must just be a gesture. I thought a little hesitance would be enough to deter him, since maybe he was just asking to be polite anyway. He'd ask me, I'd say "no because I have to feed Mila", he'd say "oh yeah, bummer, I'll miss you" and that way I couldn't resent him for leaving me. :) (Not that I'm that wife or anything.... or at least not since I set my 2008 resolutions....)
But it didn't work out that way. He was pretty convinced that it actually would be more fun with me there (sweet huh?) So after making all the arrangements with his parents to make sure the timing would work out with Sophia's nap and Mila's eating schedule, he convinced me to go.
What he also convinced me to do was go to the TOP of the mountain (blue square or something... whatever's a little harder than what I should be doing... seeing as I've ski'id like twice, both times as a pre-teen I think.) He (and Taylor- thanks Taylor) were certain that it wasn't actually any harder, but that we'd avoid the long lift line this way. Well, we made it to the top (barely, as I was sure at points that I would die of FROZEN EAR syndrome on the longest and coldest lift-ride of my life.) But since we only had two hours of twilight skiing between baby feedings, and I had to inch my way down the mountain at what had to be a record slow pace, taking breaks in between to rest my grossly out of shape quads, we only got one ride down. Sorry Ross. But your theory that it wasn't actually going to be any harder was horribly wrong. Luckily there was a good 15 minutes or so when it wasn't so steep, and I must say it was SUPER fun, and I get it, how people can get so addicted to a sport. I craved it the next day.
So I thought about just posting the picture and leaving some of you to think that perhaps I'm one of those cool wives, the kind that can keep up with her husband on the slopes, one that doesn't complain that her toes are most certainly going to fall off and that she might throw up from the pain, the kind that doesn't fall and wait for her husband to hike back up the mountain to put her rejected ski back on, or beg him, like a small child, to hold her hand on the scary lift-dismount. The kind that doesn't make her husband stuff her pony tail inside her jacket to get the neck warmer thing up over her ears, and then scream in pain as he pulls her baby hairs. I thought about it, just posting the picture, but decided to come clean. I'm totally that wife, and am just coming to terms with it.