Saturday afternoon, Dorothy picked up Lola, Astrid and me in her husband's truck and we met Starr and Cookie for a trek to the lake for some cross-country skiing.
It's been years since I cross-country skied. Definitely before Thing 1 was conceived, so it was early 2003 , probably. Ski pants...waaay too tight. But I refuse to buy more, even as I stuff another Oreo into my face. I wasn't sure where all of my gear was, even. Gloves and hat...found...appropriate underclothing...found, in the form of old running tights with holes and a too small thermal undershirt. Who the hell cares?! I'm going out!!! No kids!!!! Ski boots, found...I trip over them in the basement every once in a while, so that was easy. Skis and poles...hmmm. Darling hubby, in his eternal efficiency (or attempts at such) has stored them in the basement rafters. After moving a large pile of crap and balancing on a chair, I free skis and poles from the bondage of the rafters. Put them on porch so as not to forget. Lola meets me here...Dorothy picks us up. As we skip to the truck (okay we weren't skipping, but our glee at being out sans children was pretty evident nonetheless) We meet the others and make the trek to the lake, about a half hour away. Woo-hoo!! We unload the truck...skis for Lola, skis for Dorothy, skis for Astrid...no skis for me. They are on the porch...at home...a half hour away. I am tempted to drive all the way back home (even though neither of the vehicles at the lake are mine) and retrieve skis. But that's ridiculous. They'll be done by then. I envision myself sitting on the gate of the truck in my ski boots, drying my tears as I watch the others ski into the distance, when Astrid pulls out a pair of snowshoes and saves the day. I have never snowshoed before, but it beats being the only attendee at my pity party, and it means I can accompany the x-country ski group. Yipee!! So off we go, me with my tennis racket feet and them with their skis (Star with her vintage skis, circa 1900, which Dorothy was required to repair in the middle of the woods when the bindings burst off) .
The snowshoeing was fun, and I must say my fears of falling and bursting open my skin-tight ski pants while peeing on myself (again the lack if Kegels haunts me) were dispelled. Apparently I became too relaxed, because, despite no skis, I fell twice. Once I was walking sideways on a slope. Understandable. The other time I was talking to Dorothy and swore I caught sight of a handicapped sign on a tree in the middle of the woods. Intrigued, I turned only to discover it was merely a blue and white trail marker, but stepped on my own snowshoe in the process and fell, much to Dorothy's amusement.
Apres ski, we proceeded to a lovely English tavern ( we are located in rural upstate New York.) There is something very wrong with that. The menu was a virtual contradiction of itself, offering such authentic fare as the Middlesex sandwich, intermingled with Steak-umms and Dynabites. My dining companions felt that Dynabites were in order, and we were served a smallish plate festooned with about 8 or 10 Dynabites and a small cup of Ranch dressing. I jokingly dared Cookie to drink the Ranch dressing, and tempted her with the reward of a crisp dollar bill. She declined, but counter offered, telling me she would give me five bucks to down said dressing. Ah, Cookie, ye have only known me a short time. Were Andie with us, she'd have warned you. After dramatic pauses for prep time, perhaps invoking images of an Olympic diver on the platform readying herself, I ceremoniously drank the dressing, all at once, shot-style. And Cookie promptly paid up. Good thing, as I was short on cash (see entry regarding wallet loss).
The novelty of being out without children had yet to wear off, and after Dynabites and dinner, we proceeded to a diner for dessert. Yummy. We amused the waitress with obnoxious and inappropriate comments about things. And finally, as all good things must, our evening came to an end. I can't wait to do it again, but this time with my skis!!!