“Do you want to take the class?” she asked.

I looked at the five and six year-olds in fluffy snow jackets and knit hats topped with little pom poms of yarn.  Not an old guy in the bunch.  “No, I think I can figure it out,” I said.

Becky, an expert skier, gave me tips on the way up the bunny slope’s lift.  The lift reached the top, I turned to head down the slope and hit 300 miles per hour in less than 60 seconds – my svelteness perhaps cutting down on wind resistance dramatically.  And that’s when it happened: a twelve year-old on a snowboard cut me off and wiped out in front of me.  “Snow play!” Becky shouted from behind me.

The next thing I knew I was tumbling down the icy mountain stuck in the splits, feeling things in my groinal area and lower back pop and tear.

The next morning I threw up.  The next day I went on a string of gigs in horrible pain.  The next week the doctor said I’d broken my hip.  I’ve had nerve damage in my lower body, reoccurring back problems and a fear of twelve year-olds ever since.

Fast forward seven years.  Last night, I sprinted across a restaurant parking lot in the rain without a coat while Becky waited at the door for me to bring the car around.  As I sprinted off she said for the fifth time, “Let me get the car, I have a coat.”

Did I mention I’ve got new shoes: Dallas Shoe Warehouse. $21. Diesel shoes. Stylish. Slick.

I landed on the hip the bunny slope didn’t take out and slid about ten feet across the asphalt donutting slightly and bruising my hip and ego.

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