Head of Pillow, Quads of Steel

Do you know who this is? No?

Well, then, I'll tell you: this is your own dear old Aunt Pillowhead.

I shit you not.

Let me tell you something, my little darlings. I have a few surprises up my sleeve. And this is the latest one: Aunt Pillowhead, a nearly 49 year-old perimenopausal woman with fading eyesight and graying temples, can #$%*@ rip on her Mantras, and hold her own with a bunch of testosterone-addled, type A men who have something to prove.

Last week, I went on a cat ski trip with Perfect Man--a last-minute invite from a business friend of his. 11 men had reserved a private cat--expert level--and two of them bowed out. Would Perfect Man and a friend be interested in taking their spots?

And Perfect Man, being perfect, said his favorite ski buddy was his wife, but if this was a guy trip, he understood, and he could find another friend to come. "Oh no," the business friend said. "If your wife can ski, bring her. That'd be cool."

I have to admit I had some trepidation and anxiety about it all. The way it works, the cat takes the group up to a spot the guides have chosen based on the ability level of the group. They take you down a run and assess everyone's capability, then gauge which trails and spots they'll take you on all day according to the weakest skier. Every run, you follow the lead guide to the bottom, where the cat is either already waiting, or where it will be any minute to pick you up. The faster the group is, the more runs you do in a day--the range is between 8 and 12.
So I worried about two things:
1. That I'd be the weakest skier and everyone would be disappointed that they didn't get to ski the kind of terrain they wanted to, and
2. That I'd have difficulty on some of the runs--I don't like cliffs or tight trees--and that I'd get to the bottom and find 10 impatient extreme skiers wondering who the hell invited Betty Crocker. It's not cheap, and people have to make reservations well in advance, and I didn't want to ruin anyone's big day.

Well guess what, kittens? I was not the weakest skier, not by a long shot. I was comfortably right in the middle of a group of expert skiers who just happened to be all very fit, much younger men. In fact, because the avalanche danger was low, and because we were all such strong skiers, the guides took us down three gorgeous steep runs that had not been skied all season. I waited for people several times that day. No one ever waited for me. I fell once, on a cat walk (caught an edge in some slab), but others fell multiple times, on all kinds of terrain, so it was no big deal. I picked my way through the tight trees, had a great time in the chutes, and circumvented the two biggest cliffs so as not to kill myself. In short, I had a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful time. We skied 12 runs. And by the end of the day, I had even earned a nickname from the guys, which I interpreted as a badge of acceptance and approval.

(I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it--people like me!)

Truthfully, I have to say: to do something like this for the first time at this point in my life? Pretty cool.

I can't wait to do it again.

Sparring With Jeep Boy

Jeep Boy is a new man. Literally.

Maybe it's his restaurant job. I kind of think it is. In that atmosphere, everyone sees him only as he is now: 6 feet tall, handsome, graceful in his movement and sweet and funny in his disposition. And I think the way he is perceived there has had a profound effect on the way he sees himself. His fragile uncertainty is melting away, and he seems to be growing into his new lanky frame, both physically and emotionally.

And somehow, with all of this, there is a new tenderness between us that I am so, so happy to report, and even happier to experience. Although our relationship has never been hostile, there's always been something a little withholding and distant there, that's always made me a little sad.

On Monday, we skied together: Jeep Boy, Perfect Man, and I. Hammerhead opted to stay home--so instead of 2 Grownups/2 Kids, it was three grownups. We had a great time, laughing a lot, enjoying 3-5 inches of fresh pow, skiing hard. Perfect Man took some video of us in the bumps and trees, like he always does, and Jeep Boy and I reviewed them in the car on the way home. First I looked them over, then I handed the camera back to Jeep Boy and he did, too.

Which is how he came across a horrible, horrible 10 second video that Perfect Man took of me last month, in the lodge at lunchtime. He'd been testing out the camera and I didn't know he was shooting me. Here's the basic action:

ME, with an epic case of helmet hair. Spaced out, looking off to the side, chewing my salad like a cow chews cud. One, two, three slow, hang-lipped chews. I swallow, take a sip of cocoa, then glare at the camera suspiciously. END.

Honestly, it couldn't be more hideous. And when Jeep Boy was clicking through the camera, found and watched it, it went something like this

"What the HELL? Oh my GOD this is SO MESSED UP! What the HELL kind of...what the HELL? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)"

"What?" I asked from the front seat, with a certain amount of anxiety.

"NO, I'm not showing this to you yet, HOLY SHIT this is hysterical. What does this MEAN? What is this? It's DISTURBING HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)"

"What?" I asked, a little frantic now. "Show me. What?"

Well, from there it devolved into very unflattering, but apparently amusing impersonations, judging from Perfect Man's copious and hearty laughter. Then a few really upsetting comparisons (the bad guy from Goldfinger when I'm chewing, Zoolander when I'm sipping the cocoa). But the funny thing was how he latched onto it and how much it made him laugh.

"I have NEVER seen you look so MESSED UP HAHAHAHAHAHAHA (etc.)"

He wouldn't let me delete it. He begged me to let him download it onto the computer. He wanted to take a picture of it with his cell phone. (I put the kabosh on that.) And, using the rear-view mirror as a guide, he worked to master his impersonation of me for the rest of the ride home. And every time I'd turn around to ask him something, he'd look at me earnestly with this horrible expression on his face, waiting for me to scream at him to stop. And finally I stopped protesting and just joined in the laughter. What the hell.

Flash Forward: Yesterday, when I came downstairs, his shoes were on the front carpet again. It was the first time he'd forgotten since the New Rule. I picked them up and threw them into the front yard, about 10 feet away from the porch. Then, after he woke up and ate the delicious migas I made him for breakfast, I went downstairs to fold laundry and he packed up to go back to his mom's for the week. He called to me to say he was leaving, and I came up to say goodbye. He was at the front door, putting on the shoes that had been sitting in the snow all night.

"Found your shoes?" I asked.

"Yes," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "They were nice and toasty from the snow."

Then he looked at me, snapped into that horrible expression, gave me a big, big hug, and went laughing out the door.