My husband and I have a lot of interests in common. But a love for cold weather sports is not one of them. When we got married, he asked me to learn how to ski. It wasn’t pretty, but eventually I could get down a mountain with all my limbs intact. I soon discovered the bigger ski challenge was learning the lingo.

My husband and I have a lot of interests in common. But a love for cold weather sports is not one of them.


When we got married, he asked me to learn how to ski. It wasn’t pretty, but eventually I could get down a mountain with all my limbs intact. I soon discovered the bigger ski challenge was learning the lingo.


For instance, on one of my runs, I didn’t just fall, I was wiped out by a knuckle dragger, had a yard sale and did a face plant. In non-skier terms, this means I was knocked down by a snowboarder, my skis and poles went flying, and I landed face-first in the snow.


Got all that?


Another component of success as a skier is the outfit. If you dress like an experienced skier and you get the lingo down pat, you don’t even have to go on the slopes at all. Slap a lift ticket on your jacket, rub a little snow on your face and voila: You’re a skier! 


Unless, of course, you have a kid to expose your ruse.


“Hey mom, want to ski the moguls with me?” asked my son.


“Moguls?” I questioned. “You mean like Donald Trump?”


He rolls his eyes. “No. Moguls are the bumps on the expert slopes,” he said impatiently.


“Do you go over them?”


“No, around them.”


“I think I’ll go way around them, like on a totally different slope,” I told him.


“Oh, come on Mom, don’t be a dweeb.”


Even I, ski-illiterate that I am, knew what this meant.


“I may be a dweeb, but at least I’ll be a live dweeb,” I said, and hoisted myself up to take my daughter to the bathroom.


As hard as skiing is, walking on dry land when you are completely ski-ensembled is darn near impossible, and removing all that gear to go to the bathroom is an Olympic event. Twenty minutes later, zipped, buckled and tucked in all the right places, my daughter and I were finally ready to leave the ladies room. But just as we got to the exit, the door came flying open. As I lurched forward to save my daughter from being knocked over, my boots slipped on the slushy floor, and I had a yard sale.


I limped back to our table in the lodge and my husband came rushing over to see what had happened.


“What do you call it when you wipe out in the ski lodge bathroom?” I asked him.


He grinned.


“Stupid.”


For more of Tracy Beckerman’s Lost in Suburbia, visit her blog at www.lostinsuburbia.net