Go Smack Talk a Mountain

Man, my mama musta screamed when she gave birth to me cuz I swear I was born with skis on my feet.

Today I cross-country skied for the first time in the mountains of Colorado. It kicked, it rocked, it glided and slided. We started on Greens - as in greenhorn, as in EZ, as in gently sloping lands. ZZZZ... We quickly realized that we were made of sterner stuff and progressed to Blues.

In the bag.

Here I stand poised to enter my first Black, the Disco Trail. And that's when I realized my mama's pain. Cuz shoot. I was born with these skis on my feet. I was John Travolta and Olivia Newton John rolled into one in my nice, tight, black pants. I discoed and dodged and twisted and turned and flew. I mighta even pressed my ski poles into service for that cute little pointing move.

And climb??

Mama-mia! What comes down must go up. But I didn't let that fog up my disco ball. I was the little engine that could and steamed up those hills.

All told, it took me three hours to break those mountains' backs. I left 'em consulting with Crayola, looking for more colors. I left 'em crying for their mamas - cuz they realized that they were born with just ski tracks at their feet.