You Want to do What?

I feel like an old woman. It wasn't driving Nick's parents' sweet, still-smells-like-leather, immaculate car on the tiny village roads that did it - although sharing those gorgeous roads with semis does give me pause, it's got to be said (and much of the way to Grenoble is autoroute anyway)... No. My accelerated aging program began the moment Nick asked the guy at the ski rental shop the size of their largest ski boot. When they said 52 (Nick is a 50, size 16 in the US) I knew we were in trouble. What were the chances of that?? Even smaller, I thought, was the likelihood Nick would actually take it as a sign that he should ski while visiting his cousins who were vacationing in Collet d'Allevard, near Grenoble. So along with gear for Cayenne, Acacia and me, we piled ridiculously big boots and skis into the car before heading to the hills.

I was not happy.

We stopped by Francoise and Philippe's place (Nick's aunt and uncle) for a cup of tea, which helped me decompress a bit before white-knuckling it up the hairpin turns to the ski town - the drive to which, I realised on the way down after we were done skiing, is not bad at all. I was just strung tighter than a piano wire on the way there, and didn't truly loosen up until the skiing was done, two days later.

Cayenne and Acacia had a blast with all their "cousins," who are really the kids of Nick's cousins but no one knows what that is exactly. Actually, they would be their second cousins, just Googled it. That's easy enough; it's their relationship to Nick - first cousins once removed - where things get complicated. Anywho, the girls are old enough now to get that just because they understand their French speaking cousins, it doesn't mean their English is understood in return. So they used the local lingo and when that didn't work, did what kids all over the world do and used the basic human communication we seem to lose as adults. Mostly what we heard from the bunk-bedrooms was squealing, laughing and general hysteria.

Nick's cousin Marion and her husband Jean-Marc operate like a well oiled machine and before we'd realised why it had gotten so quiet all of a sudden, all four of their daughters, our two and a family friend of theirs were on the slope. Eye drops in, hand wrapped in a ball of fleece and two pairs of sunglasses on and Nick was ready to head out the door. I, on the other hand, was having heart palpitations.

Even one-eyed and single-poled Nick was arguably the most beautiful skier on the mountain. He skis with such fluid grace and power, it's a treat to watch. But this time I could barely take it. I knew what a bad wipe-out could have meant and so did he, but he never wipes out. Thing is, he's never skied mono-eyed either, so when on the second day he misjudged the distance of a girl skiing next to him on a steep slope and he fell, I nearly threw up. He was fine and it was the last run of our stay and soon afterward that particular stress was over. On to the next one: his good eye. But I'll save that for the next post.

On the way up to Allevard I had told him that if he further injured himself, any reasonable person would cry "What?!" when I said, "Well he was skiing and -" because it was retarded. (Sorry Sarah Palin, but sometimes that word is just right.) But I have to tell you, on the chairlift at the end of that first day Nick said that it had been one of the best days of his life (ranking below the day he married me, I'm sure he meant to add). So yes, it was retarded, but I guess he knew what he needed, and although he was wrecked at the end of both days, I think he'd do it all again in a heartbeat. I just hope he doesn't.

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What's wrong with this picture??

Wouldn't know it from the photo... but he's still a mess. I don't know anyone else who would have been out there in his condition, and it makes me want to scream. But it's also why I married him.