I'm still rocking it as a lunch lady five, sometimes six, times a week. Mostly it's awful, but I try to make what I can from it. Midweek is usually slow, so I have plenty of down time while my macaroni and cheese warms. Which means: I read, I write, I play guitar (thanks to one ski instructor who leaves hers in the building). I chat with people -- all kinds of people. The best part: I speak Spanish all the time with the Argentinian and Chilean instructors. It's a little like free re-education; I get more practice than I did in college, and far more than I have anytime since then. So, while I can't say I'm not desperately longing for spring, I'm trying my best to soak up something good where I am now. (Or at least I'll soak up all the cocoa machine spillage.)
It's been darn cold most of this winter. Some mornings I walk up the base of the mountain from my car and I breathe in the frozen air and watch the sun sparkle through the snowflakes shaken from the branches of the pines, and I think that it must be so peaceful and magical to be alone on skis lost in the powdery trails. And then my boogers freeze solid in my nose and I hasten my step just a bit more. Skiing does seem fun -- but mostly I'm of the opinion that skiiers are completely bonkers.
The boys are a little lame about playing in the snow; they may have inherited my cold-wimp gene. (Also, they're still little I suppose.) When we ask if they want to go out they'll answer, "Sure, I'd love to -- after rest time I think," (that's Pupper), and "Not zet," (that's Wooden). But we have managed to drag them out a few times, and it always feels good, even if it doesn't last long.
