Pardon My French!

Bon Voyage!

I have always been a big fan of vacations. Throw a knapsack on my back, push me onto a plane and fan me while I lounge on my beach towel. Whether my destination be Timbuktu or the North Pole, any trip would make me happier than Garfield in a giant vat of lasagna. This year, however, was different.

The year’s end inched closer, and my moment of truth arrived. This was it. More important than graduation or being baptized. If tainted, it would be more devastating than any ruined prom or corrupted marriage. This was the last winter break of my entire high school life, the pinnacle of my existence. It was going to be epic.

I shoved all of the essentials into my decaying Egan P.E. bag. Toothbrush, tampons, “The Godfather” and some socks. The Larsen clan was going skiing.

Filled with excitement, I squirmed in the hot van filled with Larsens of all shapes and sizes. I sang along with Barry Manilow and Alvin and the Chipmunks through eight hours of holiday traffic. I jumped out of the car and ran to the rental cabin, grasping the nearest mountain bum by the neck. I must be fitted immediately; I was on a mission from God.

The “ski specialist” Sid, who was old enough to be Gandalf’s elder brother, limped toward the back of the shop, only to return empty-handed. All of the skis had been rented and I was completely out of luck. But I was not thinking clearly. My heart was about to explode. With chipmunk-ian melodies clouding my brain, I threatened Sid with my Eye of Sauron collectible necklace and left the shop 10 minutes later carrying a new snowboard.

Enjoying the comfort of my soft boardin’ booties, I hopped onto the lift. I would ben on the slopes in minutes, carving the mountain with my rad skills from years of longboarding. Not five seconds after my board touched the ground did I realize just how mistaken I was. Ten minutes passed, and I was a massive bruised, bloody heap at the base of a tree. A few toddlers raced by on their boards, snickering as they sprayed me with snow. I cried for help and finally an elderly woman skier in a bright pink body suit pulled me over to the side and helped me back to my cabin.

So while I could have hurt myself on my skis in a more noble fashion, even with style, maybe by running into a tree on a triple-über black diamond run, I did not. I was here, saved by Madonna’s grandmother, icing my bruised buttocks in the midst of my entire family. Believe me, they were proud.