Continuing in the time-honored tradition of sharing my cringe-inducing journal entries from the past, I have chosen for you today a discourse on high school and freestyle skiing.
This weird entry begins with a witch and ends with a despairing interior monologue.
Note the graceful transition.
October 26, 1997 (Age 16)
My Publications class consists of:
1 goth girl
2 dorky guys
The witch is on Prozac. She is extremely fascinating. I hate to say that about a person, but if she means to appear odd, then there is no reason that I can’t acknowledge her success. Every day in class she gives us a lecture about why we should be on Prozac too. She calls herself Jezebel though her real name is Jen. Jezzie for short.
Not only do we have to hear about Prozac every day, but Nora enlightens us with stories about the hot guy she met downtown while twisting her double-sided tongue ring.
Nicole and Dee (the cheerleaders) make comments about everyone else’s conversations.
And our teacher just sits there with an amused expression. Fun fun fun.
Meanwhile, skiing remains a major concern.
I hate freestyle and those involved. I guess it boils down to that one great year before competition kicked in. We had so much fun together then. I still think about them all as they were, and that’s when I miss them. Especially D.
Thinking back, I hate freestyle! It is so relieving to say that! Icy moguls with huge, uneven jumps in the middle, steep trails above the courses, waking up at 5am to go to a lodge that smells like sweat and donuts, sitting with Coach M who piles his plate with those sweaty donuts I spoke of, jamming on clammy, tight boots (often over bruised and bleeding feet) and stomping outside and being paranoid about riding the lift alone just to reach the top of the mountain where it’s -20 and skiing down to a closed course which we stand next to until it opens an hour later, then waiting 10 hours until I’m up–just to get to the bottom of the course and have Coach M say:
“Well, I’ve seen you do worse.”
Then hasten back to the stinking lodge to await the results, which 500 kids gloat over and make one-another cry over, then go back to the hotel and dream about Sunday’s icy, looming aerial site, waking up every five minutes to make sure that my music tape is still in my bag for my acroskiing* routine, meanwhile running over and over my routine in my head and falling every time… And at the end of the weekend, driving home in a snowstorm with a sodden score sheet to show for it all.
In the back seat, staring back at myself from the dark window with my chemistry homework open on my lap, I look forward to the next weekend.
* Acroski [Akk-roh-skee] noun: From the late 1960s until the mid 1990s, the unfortunate spectators of ski ballet competitions (later re-named “acroskiing”) were treated to choreographed ski-dance routines combining flips, rolls, pole pivots, and pirouettes performed to music. Ironically enough, the root origin of “acro” means “height,” which was not incorporated in this highly suspect recreation, begging the question, “Why the fuck did they rename it acroskiing?” (definition courtesy of Sicktionary: Skier Slang)
If I’ve piqued your interest in acroskiing, here is a fancy video of clips from 1988-1992 set to Duran Duran.