SKIING: A POETICS

First, we ripped underwear.

To wit, one of the many, uh, complications of suddenly finding yourself a parent of a teenage boy -- a "culture" about which I am totally ignorant -- is that one has to be prepared for what it takes to help said boy meet his potential. Well, not only is Michael on the Honor Roll (oh pardon Moi but have I already bragged about that...?), but he is a natural athlete.

So parenting Michael has meant, among other things, that I and the hubby have had to dust off many a sports outfit to accommodate the hijo's athleticism. Last summer, I played tennis for the first time in a decade as part of the process of introducing him to the game. A carabao in white ... whatever. Well, this weekend, off we trotted to Northstar Tahoe to introduce him to skiing and snowboarding. Again, Michael was a natural -- his instructor ended up taking him on intermediate slopes before Saturday ended. Louis, from Chile, was so enthused he moaned in both Castilian-Espanol and English that we should live closer to the slopes so Michael could immediately join the racing team! Sunday was for snowboarding and Michael also excelled. Looks like this family is back to hitting the slopes every winter! (Save us green chile, ye peeps in New Mexico!)

But about that underwear -- I and the hubby also haven't skiied in a decade. So a week ago, we delved deep -- deeeeeep! -- into the closet to take out the old ski clothes and see what equipment still stayed relevant to today's sport. Well, we hoped of course that thermal underwear would still be in fine condition. And they were...until we put them on. The rip was ugly to hear. Uh huh...okay, so all that fine wine apparently expanded our fleshly expanse as much as living on a mountain surrounded mostly by furry critters expanded moi internet blather. Fortunately, this was such a busy winter that by the time we returned to the ski stores for new clothing and some equipment, the near-end-of-winter sales were on!

Anyhoo, all this reminds me of poetry (work with me here; this is a poetics blog). For the past decade until Michael joined the family nearly a year ago, I'd just basically -- and cheerfully, mind you -- tossed exercise aside except for working the right arm's bicep from lifting all those wine bottles. But as Jessica Hagedorn once pointed out and I paraphrase, A poem shouldn't be sitting on its ass fanning itself!

So, you see, parenting Michael means that I'm being aided into be-ing instead of writing the poem. Not that the poet is the poem, of course, but that in the writing or making of the poem, it's best for the poem that it comes into being rather than being authored. Kapisch? No? Whatever.

Meanwhile, here are photos of Michael during his snowboarding lessons (he apparently prefers skiing, though -- dude after Moi own heart). Second photo shows him with his instructor whose (nick)name, I think, is Nemo.





As for how Moi did after ten years of absence from the ski slopes? Dude -- I was hot. I was on. Bump me a knuckle bump, why dontcha! I can see with much relief, as Michael is just getting started, that I can take this sport back up again! But classic Moi story -- after two days of flexing muscles I'd forgotten I possessed and not just surviving but looking fantabulous (I'm gonna ignore the "Moose on skis" crack that just wafted from another room), here's what happened on my last run.

I was holding hands with the hubby as we got off the ski lift. I suddenly tripped on something and fell. But instead of letting go of his hand, I tightened my hold on it. I dislocated his thumb as I fell on my ass...though, happily, there was more cushioning on that ass than ten years ago and said thumb seemed to have gone back into its groove. Pause. I just checked -- the hubby is still not speaking to me.

But, we all know, don't we: Poetry is difficult, especially when it wants to do something more than sit on its ass and fan itself!

How I suffer for Poetry. I. Suffer.