In Which Debra Has a Major Ski Accident Right Under the Lift Where Everyone Can See

 This is a picture of me and my cool mom friends having a ski day while the kids are in school.

This is not a photo of the day in question, but it gives you an idea of how cool and spontaneous we are.

While the kids are in school. All of them. This is the first year I've been able to say that since 2008, so it's pretty special. But I digress! Because you came to read about my face plant, didn't you?

Face plant I did, dear reader. And all because, like a total amateur, I dropped my glove my first time up the lift. 

Did I have the good fortune to drop it where it would be easy to retrieve? Perhaps a gently-sloped, wide, groomed area where I could grab it as I expertly swished by? Alas. It was on a black diamond, the universal symbol for "Debra doesn't ski here."

But I had just purchased these gloves. So, terrified but resolute, I shimmied forth! In the name of frugality!

The plan was to gently glide downhill through the powder, then uphill, where I would then snow-plow to the glove like a 5-year-old in her first ski lesson. My plan was derailed after about 10 feet, however, as my glide turned into an out-of-control speed and my ski tips dove under a great deal of powder,  catapulting me forward like The Greatest American Hero. Flying away! On a wing and a prayer!

My landing was soft, but my skis and poles were spread out as if they had planned on escaping different directions to avoid re-capture. Let's not forget that it was bitterly cold and my poor little naked hand had no glove.

So I laid there in the snow for like a good five minutes, girding my loins while skiers stared from the chair lift above. Every couple of chairs someone would yell "are you OK?" and I would make some  joke at which they did not laugh. Because I was so pathetic, see?

After my five minutes of loin-girding, I gathered everything together, stopping often to warm my hand on my hand warmer so I wouldn't lose my fingers, and trudged shamefully through the remaining powder to the nearest gently-sloped, wide, groomed area. 

My friends looked at me like the people on the lift looked at me. You know, like "oooh, that's gotta hurt." We all apologized profusely for I don't know what, and had a fantastic rest-of-the-day.

Lessons learned: (1) I'm no spring chicken (2) powder is not my friend, no matter how tantalizingly it beckons and (3) Amazon is going to be happy if I ever drop a glove again.

My skilled, brave friend Skye did retrieve my glove. If only she had talked me out of trying to retrieve it myself. So really, it's all Skye's fault.