The days are chilly, there’s snow in the air, the lifts are turning, the hot chocolate is flowing. So why am I so out of sorts? Isn’t this the season that I’ve been waiting for all summer and fall?
Well, yes. Like so many readers of this magazine, I’ve been having visions of cruising down powdery trails, of feeling the rush of the air as I proceed down the hill, of having a hearty slopeside lunch, of sitting by a fire in the gleam of late afternoon. But — now I must admit this — unlike so many of you who have reached the last page of this magazine, I am…well, a little unsettled.
Unsettled — why, that’s an understatement. I’m frightened. Scared stiff, if you must know.
Here’s why: My 31-year-old daughter, a onetime snowsports instructor — someone who skis with abandon and devotion — has invited me to join her on a ski trip. Of course, I accepted; I all but broke the sound barrier to accept her invitation, even the part — all you parents out there already will have guessed this — that specified that Dad was going to pay for this excursion.