Skiing with Five Guys.
Each year my husband's family men take a ski trip together. Is it just me, or are the ladies getting majorly gypped on such a fun tradition? I am not a master skier, but if I skied as often as they do then I would be a regular Kelley Clark. Or the skiing equivalent of her mad skills.
So this year, I insisted on joining the fellowship.
My request was (surprisingly) met with complete enthusiasm from the male camp. They were down with me joining their trip, and I didn't even experience any hazing to get initiated into the club. Was I prepared to be one of the men? Absolutely. I expected to be shocked by their disgusting behavior, inappropriate conversation and general smelliness. And I prepared to keep my game face on and remain unaffected by their inherently bad behavior. But you know what? I was wrong. Hanging with the guys was just, well, normal.
We flew out to Denver and skied for a day at Breckenridge and another two days at Copper. We celebrated my father-in-law's birthday one evening with dinner at an Italian restaurant called Millonzi's. Get this: when we arrived at Millonzi's, we were informed that it was Irish Night and they were featuring a special on their mojitos, if you wore a Hawaiian shirt. I cannot make this stuff up. This is real.
The weather got progressively chillier during our 4-night stay. We skied in -11 degrees on our final day. I wore 9 layers of clothes. I coveted my toe warmers much like Gollum with the ring.
These boys are fun. I am so lucky to have inherited a bunch of bros. I grew up with two sisters, so my household was always pretty girly. Sharing makeup and clothes and fashion magazines was my norm. When I say sharing, I mean fighting until my little sister showed me how to be generous. She shared everything without a second thought and pretty much wrote the book on the life lesson of sharing. Am I ridiculously indebted to her? You bet. Oh my, I digress.
With my bros, I shared gloves, hand warmers and bottles of water. Oh, and Advil, sunscreen and lip balm. And socks. And peanut butter and banana sandwiches, slope-side. Even though I'm a grown adult, I relish the fact that I now have older and younger brothers and they are SO. MUCH. FUN. I love them. I simply can't help it.
While the boys are all righteously talented skiers (double black? More like double EASY for them.) I, on the other hand, am extremely happy to ski on the easy greens. I like to spend the day like a fresh snow bunny, navigating the gentle rolling, easy green hills. But these boys had me addressing new challenges, so I was flying like a bat out of hell down the difficult blues. My oh my. But you want to know what? I kind of liked it. Skiing a little bit fast is fun. And less stressful on the thighs.
My husband is always kind enough to ski with me, even though I choose the path of least resistance. When I hit an impasse he pep-talks me through the challenge. And this year, I didn't stand at the top of the mountain and weep with fear. We've progressed from the dark ages. I zipped down the blue runs of Copper Mountain, belting out Lumineers' 'Ho Hey' lyrics, "I belong with you, you belong with me, my sweetHEEEEEEAaarrrtttt..." Stevie's mountaintop encouragement gave me confidence to rule the slopes. The ground was bumpy, but I bumped right back at it. That's right. Take it.
Do I love skiing? You bet. Do I love my bros? You bet even more. Would I hit up the man trip again? Anytime they let me. Brothers are the bomb, skiing in Colorado is sick and toe warmers are inexplicably valuable. If you have a brother, give him a bear hug today, because sometimes (just sometimes), boys are the best.