For as long as I can remember, this has been one of my favorite feelings…To make your claim on public space even as you feel yourself disappearing into its largesse, into its sublimity. To practice for death by feeling completely empty, but somehow still alive. (Maggie Nelson, The Red Parts)
“Skiing should be easy,” opined Hans (a pseudonym; the recurring German characters in my personal accounts are always referred to as “Hans”), a gold-star skiing instructor at Snowbasin Resort in Eden, Utah. “Listen, if I am too tiahd to pahty by ze end of ze day, I did somesink wrong.” After 5 hours of skiing, heretofore unused muscles in my quads and calves began to ominously stiffen. For a few fleeting seconds before each chair ride up the moderately easy run of Little Cat, my hips gratefully eased into the slow-moving seat, which lovingly scooped up my bottom. I could still “party” too, if that means lying on one’s tummy, eyes closed in a warm bed, listening to podcasts before surrendering to oblivion by 9:00 PM. Clearly, I was doing somesink wrong, and it was Hans’ job to rectify the situation.
Hans placed me in his intermediate-beginner group and my ex in the intermediate group. “Is it okay if I split you two up?” he asked jokingly. “Sure,” I replied dryly, “He’s my ex-husband, we don’t need to be together.” A stunned Hans peered at me for two beats through his reflective goggles. “WOW! Mind blown, Aisha!” He used his fingers to demonstrate how his mind was, quite literally, blown straight out of his skull, complete with sound effects.
I duck-walked to a girl named Trulie, who had pretty blue-green eyes and dark blonde wisps of hair peeking around the edges of her helmet. I immediately knew Trulie was Mormon, even before she revealed she had 5 kids, the oldest age 26 (and married) and the youngest age 7 (a little girl, who was also skiing on Little Cat, only much more skillfully than either her mom or myself). Mormons often alter the spellings of first names, because abstaining from alcohol and coffee is somehow not distinguishing enough. Hence, Truly, already an unusual, lovely name, is transformed into Trulie. For example, why go with Melody when you can be Melodie or Melodee? And the many permutations of Desiree/Deseret/Desiray(e)/Desireigh boggle the mind.
In fact, Trulie was a 45-year-old woman who only resembled a girl. Like me, she was openly humble about her skiing abilities. “I just want to improve my basic skills so I can feel comfortable going down the mountain.” I nodded in agreement. She recounted how her previous instructor had refused to help her up and yelled at her when she fell on a more advanced slope. My mind immediately conjured up the long-buried memory of Chrissy, a hard-drinking, chain-smoking riding teacher, who loudly dubbed me the “worst student ever” in the middle of a group lesson.
As we approached the end of the lift, one student attempted to prematurely lift the safety bar. “No, no, no,” Hans tutted, “Everysink in ze proper order,” he admonished. As we approached the small bright yellow sign signaling skiiers that disembarking was imminent, he said curtly, “Now vee do it.” “Zatt is how I learned to ski, in an orderly fashion,” he explained as we coasted off the chair, tips pointed slightly up.
After three hours of skiing, it was time for lunch. Hans had an announcement. “So guys, I’m not trying to smooch off of you, but I cannot enter ze dining hall in ze lodge unless you invite me.” How vampiric, I thought. I’m pretty sure he meant mooch and not smooch, but no matter. After we sat down and I’d shoveled the first spoonful of hot beef and bean chili into my mouth, Hans leaned over, in a slightly conspiratorial manner, to ask me point blank, “So Aisha, vatt is ze deal, is your ex an asshole, or vatt?” Or vatt. He then questioned if it made sense to continue to communicate with one’s ex (“Vatt is ze point? I do not talk viss my first two vives.”). Needless to say, Hans did not have any biological children, which may account for his no-speaking policy.
The Qu’ran stipulates that a man can take more than one wife, but he must treat each one equally. To Muhammad, I posit: What if a man should divorce his second wife and start dating a significantly younger (and blonder) girlfriend; is he still obligated to maintain basic relations with his former wife, the mother of his two children? The prophet’s response: MIND BLOWN! Muhammad could conceive of multiple wives, but divorce? I’m not so sure. He would no doubt be intrigued by the notion of a blonde girlfriend, however.
As the former wife, my status is second class. Is it enough that I receive a monthly alimony check paid in full and on time, every month? Doesn't hurt. Equality and respect, however deserved or earned, are not to be had. My ex treats me the same way he did when we were together: not particularly well, with a heaping dose of irritability and a measure of scorn. To be fair, he is likely stuck in the grooves that wore through our 15-year relationship. I had convinced myself a fresh start post divorce was possible, because we are no longer burdened with daily reminders of our mutual failings, anger, and regret.
During our marriage, I continually felt I was chasing Tim, trying to engage his attention and time. He has the habit of (literally) blindly marching ahead. There is no time to amble, you see, and if you cannot keep up with his endlessly long strides, too bad. “We are not in Dubai!” I have yelled at his receding back, shaking my fist while pointing out that I am not obligated to walk ten steps behind my husband (current or former). I wonder if his girlfriend, a Russian, minds very much; on the other hand, if they weren’t together, she’d probably be dating a sullen Muscovite who would beat her senseless daily with a day-old sturgeon. Everything is relative.
One morning, I forgot to insert the filter into the coffeemaker; I’m an idiot. En route to the airport, he angrily insisted that he already texted me the confirmation number to obtain my boarding pass. Instead, I could wait in line and get my pass “from the lady.” In which line, and from what lady? I’m not checking my bag, so I’d rather not wait in—FINE, I’ll find the number and send it to you! I’m an anxious traveler, doesn’t he remember? By then, I was in tears, and realized the kids had paused their backseat bickering to listen in on a rare occurrence—their parents’ fighting. Two years ago, my daughter noted that she didn’t understand why we were separating, because “you never fight.” She asked my mom this, too, who pointed out that while there were no dramatic arguments, her dad and I had essentially stopped speaking to each other months before we separated.
Ayla tweaked her knee on her second day of skiing. The Snowbasin Ski Patrol (or, according to my voicemail transcription, the Salvation Ski Patrol, a more appropriate moniker for a rescue team) promptly came to her aid with its trusty toboggan. One staff member even left me a voicemail that he has secured “eyelashes” and is transporting her to the clinic for x-rays. Post rescue, Ayla-Eyelashes was delighted to eavesdrop on incoming calls to the Patrol as she lay prone on an examination table. Highlights included the “43-year-old male too tired to descend the mountain,” and she remarked that the 22-year-old female with the allegedly sprained ankle was practically twerking by the time she reached the clinic. Ayla enjoyed the ride down in the toboggan so much that she postulated other skiers were prone to exaggerating their injuries just to be similarly rescued, whether their condition merited salvation or not.
While waiting for David at the bottom of Little Cat, I watched a not-so-anxious mom describe to the Ski Patrol what her 28-year-old snowboarder son was wearing when he decided to venture off the beaten path. Apparently “dark-colored snowboarder clothes” are an actual thing? She seemed unusually calm as the Patrol dutifully recorded the details in tiny flip notebooks. Maybe that’s because he was an adult, and after all, according to his annoyed mother, “he should know better than to go off by himself.”
Every year, several skiiers, snowboarders, and snowmobile enthusiasts are buried by avalanches. They can get lost in the woods, too, and summer hikers are susceptible to exposure and dehydration. Last year, a couple in search of the perfect selfie got gored by a pissed off bison on Antelope Island.
The Wasatch Mountain range, fringed by fog and speckled with snow-topped trees, looms large during the daytime, and at night it is even more imposing, but is always completely silent. It is woefully inadequate to look out the car window and say “wow,” so you instead gaze in wonder, feeling swallowed up by its mere existence. On December 25, we wound our way through the darkened canyon. The roads were illuminated only by headlights. What a relief, I thought, but also a disappointment, to realize we are only several miles away from the city of Ogden below, twinkling enticingly in the distance with the glow of fast food restaurants and Christmas. It wasn't as remote or mysterious as it seemed in daylight.
It remains to be seen if I’ll descend the mountain flat on my back or happily twerking.
