Good morning family!
I'm writing because I fear that at this moment my brain can do little else. I'm clothed in all sweat attire, from shirt to pants, because when I got out of the tub this morning the thought of wearing clothing that touched my skin was beyond horrifying. So, I'm wearing my LSU sweatshirt and my UT sweatpants. I am a contradiction but I'm also really comfortable.
We didn't really even get home too late last night. I think we rolled in at about 10 p.m. Then we watched our new favorite show, "Superstore." It's on Hulu for any of you who aren't watching it yet. Get on it. But it was a full 13 hours of driving from Montana back to North Dakota and I did take a Dramamine and I did eat all three meals of the day at restaurants with drive thru windows. For what that is all worth.
This was our third ski trip of the year, which I'm pretty sure means that I have skied more this year than all the total times in years past. Also, I did not cry this time and J and I only got into one yelling match on the mountain. That's what I call progress, friends. Like most sports, skiing is not something that comes naturally to me. Which means that while other novices proclaim that they'll be hitting the green slopes with me, then proceed to zoom down blues on the first day, I get left behind.
So this time, while I was protesting loudly and laying on my side on a slightly sloped green slope and a ski patrol Earth momma came and rescued me and told J and I that "we have a really nice ski school," I saw a golden opportunity. I could go to "school" and have a reasonable excuse to let J finally leave my side and do the harder stuff that he'd wanted to do all along. We both agreed that it was worth our $79 dollars, yes, our martial happiness is worth $79 dollars.
What I found was that I probably should have gone to school a long time ago. Two hours with our hot ski instructor Chris (who, of course, travels to Main in the spring to lead white water rafting trips) and middle aged, dumpy-but-determined Lori (my co-classmate) and I wasn't exactly doing blacks, but I was doing a lot better. And I now had a few more green slopes in my deck that I could explore without Jarrod. I know that all you married or seriously committed folks already know this, but sometimes being told how to do something by someone you don't share a bathroom sink with cuts through the fog much more than hearing the exact same from your spouse. Thanks hot Chris.
Oh so all of that is fine and dandy, but I can't wrap up my post without talking about getting hit on by the swinger! (Way to bury the lead, Emily!) Sunday night we went into White Fish to eat our final hurrah dinner. The lot of us (I think we had about 8 people with us) sat around a bar at a fairly upscale restaurant. This couple was kind enough to move down a few seats to allow us room to sit down as a group. Well, quickly the woman started chatting me up. She was from a nearby town, in her mid 50s, and "still fun even though we're both old and out of shape." And I thought she was just being friendly.
It was fairly clear that she and her boyfriend ("he's a TSA agent, but shhhhh he doesn't like anyone to know") were quite drunk. So I forgave quite a bit and tried to avoid eye contact because that seemed to be all that was needed to be drawn into conversation. Anyway, she starts asking me about who in our group was coupled and who was single, so I happily went through the list and told her. I didn't think that was odd at the time, I just thought that she was being friendly.
Several minutes later I overheard Jarrod telling other people in our group that this woman is a swinger and trying to pick us up. I shooshed him and told him that he didn't know anything and "why does it matter anyway?"
"She just asked us to join her and her boyfriend in the hot tub later and asked what condo we were staying in." Oh yea, maybe he had a point. But maybe not, right?
Anyway, the meal went on and the woman and her boyfriend became more enthralled in the attractive young male doctor to their left than our group. Somehow our group got on the topic of switching beds, to which one of the guys in our group said loudly enough for an audience to hear, "well, Emily and Jarrod wouldn't care because y'all are swingers, right?"
To which the woman swung around on her bar stool with a look of glee that I could only muster up if I found out that there was an "everything is marked at 50 cents" sale at the Goodwill, and said "yall are swingers!?" To which, of course, there we we quickly corrected "no" and the woman turned bright red, apologized and refused to look at us the rest of the meal.
Well, after that fun story, I'm feeling a bit more awake. Time to go to work I suppose.
Much love!