Ski Vacations are Capitalist Propaganda

Sure, this woman is happy.

Why wouldn’t she be? She has just left her beloved family in the tacky ski lodge (back-right) drinking powdered hot cocoa and she is taking those two steps (a deux pas) down to Monte Carlo (bottom left) where she will shed that unflattering ski ensemble for a white linen sundress and those cumbersome skis for a cool glass of Sancerre.

Ahhh, yes. You can see it all in her smile. But imagine… someone has told her,

No, no, no, my dear… there has been a terrible mistake. You are not booked in the Alps at all. Not the Rockies. Not the Himalayas. You, my divinely happy princess, are booked in the glamorous Green Mountains of Vermont.

Picture that smile now. Upturned corners flatten. Wide eyes narrow. And that delightful disposition? Obliterated.

You reassure her,

Don’t worry ma petit fleur, even though the mountains are in fact green, because there’s been no snow, they have state-of-the-art snow-making machines. Unfortunately, the top layer does melt and then freezes forming a thick slick layer of ice everywhere. So chin up and try not to fall.

She kicks you in the head and continues on, Riviera-bound.

It would be fair to say, skiing, under the best of circumstances, does not fill me with inexplicable joy.

I don’t like the cold, the food, the lack of lodge aesthetic, the everybody loves everybody group cheeriness, the anybody will elbow anybody to get to the bar first dynamic, the snow, the ice, the skis, the boots, the Michelin man outfits, the helmet hair, the moose sweaters, the endless chatter over best runs, toughest moguls, longest lift lines, plan for tomorrow and a possible trip out west (that never happens) in the spring.

Once, about fifteen years ago, I did ski out west in Deer Valley in the spring with a t-shirt and jeans. It was enjoyable. But, had you taken away the skis and left me sunbathing in the Adirondack chair with a good book, I would have been in heaven.

Two years ago, I had a genius idea. I’ll try snowboarding.

The gear is more my style. The people seem laid-back, funky and cool – sort of like I aspire to be. And the boots, ahhh the boots! DREAMY. Not the stiff foot coffins skiers must wear. Plus, both our sons had made the switch. I am athletic and fairly driven when I decide to do something. So, I signed up for five days of lessons. And for five consecutive days I’d go the room at lunch, cry, swear, ice my butt and do it again.

The truth is, even vacations make me anxious.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for five star food, 120 minutes massages and obscene thread count. But, I don’t really enjoy it until after I’ve accomplished many things. I am quite regimented. I require hard-core physical exercise, a stretch of quiet time to write and some deeply inspiring something. Could be conversation, nature, a great poem.

I’m sort of like a race horse. I get high strung and anxious if I don’t run. So the idea of vast amounts of unstructured time with nothing to do makes me edgy. And the combination of skiing FOR MY vacation, well, let’s just say it doesn’t bring out my best qualities.