My Thigh Meets the Canadian Rockies. All of Them.

But I'm improving, I swear I am. Last time I was in Whistler, I wrecked my knee on the very first run of the very first day. And then I skiied on it all weekend. This time, I waited to wreck my thigh until the SECOND run! Huge improvements were made! (Sigh.)

The ski patrol was there in moments, almost faster than the LT, but not quite. Because I was ahead of everyone else, only our friend J saw me actually fall--he saw my skis fly up in the air and then everyone heard me scream, and, as J put it later, LT suddenly appeared out of nowhere, flying over to where I had been--J swears his skis actually came off in the air--so he could land by me and pop MY skis off, because I could not move my leg.

I'M FINE. I just body-planted on a rock field really, really hard. I didn't break anything, I hardly even broke my skin--my ski gear and helmet stood up well to the onslaught. My thigh bore the brunt of it--it wouldn't bear weight for several hours, but today I can walk, and almost go up and down stairs. It's just a great big charley horse, nothing permanent, but DAMN was I upset that I couldn't ski! Oh well. LT is skiing today. He texted me to say the snow is terrible, which was very sweet of him, given that Whistler got several inches of fresh powder over night and it is probably, actually, quite good.

The ski patrol guy asked me if I was allergic to anything, and I said, "Yeah, big fucking rocks," and he was so cool that he wrote it down: "Allergic to rocks." I almost laughed, except that it would have required moving. I got to ride in a toboggan, a very interesting experience and something I hope to never do again, although it's good to say that I've done it, and he got me down to the ski patrol "clinic" (read: "shed") and asked if I'd mind if he took a look and I said no, of course not, and I stripped down a little and he took a look.

"Seems okay," he said. "I don't think you fractured your femur. You should be okay after a few days. But are you always this vocal?"

My mind blanked out for second. "Am I always this what? WHAT?"

"Well, you make a lot of little noises," he said, not embarrassed, just asking. "Is that normal for you? Or are you in a lot of pain?"

I was speechless (possibly answering his question) while I considered the answers:

1. "You'd be vocal, too, if you'd just hit a rock wall going twenty miles an hour!"
2. "I don't know. Are all Canadians as boring and quiet as you?"
3. "I don't know, maybe you should ask my boyfriend." (Dials phone.) "Honey? Was I more vocal than usual, last night?"

(Hi mom and dad, I meant vocal while ARGUING, of course. Duh.)

Regardless, I answered that, yes, I really was always that vocal, feeling a little like a Siamese cat or something, and he said okay and bundled me into a taxi and got me home, and I made soup and read Douglas Adams and applied ice and elevation. LT, when he came back, was very supportive, and I went on to go out to dinner and get in the hot tub and do all that, and today I can almost go up stairs like a normal person! Yay!

Am I always this vocal? Oh yeah? I'LL SHOW YOU VOCAL, MISTER!