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Anyways, here’s how a day of skiing typically goes: You put on no less than 5, but no more than 37, layers of tight long sleeve shirts, only to sweat profusely as you attempt to buckle up your ski boots, which weigh the equivalent of one fiercely overweight infant, or two steroid-injected cantaloupes (whichever is heavier). Then, you lug your skis and poles through the snow, trying to both walk in boots that impair your ability to bend your legs, and not get hit by a snowboarder (my kink).
From there, you wait 20 minutes in line at the ski lift, where you’re conveniently placed on either an uphill or downhill slope—making standing in place impossible either way—only to finally get to the front and realize your lift pass was deactivated by your phone, which is now dying, ensuring that you will never see any of your friends again.
Nice knowing you, Kyle ✌️
Finally, if you succeed at making it to the top of the mountain without either plummeting to your death or falling face first into the snow when you try to hop off, *congrats* because you get to "go down the run!!!"—which takes approximately 25 seconds. Now the process starts all over again, only this time you’re more tired/hungry/cold/the snow is worse/and one of your friends tore his ACL. Did I mention this all cost $8,000?
Anyways, I took a ski lesson with my mom (ok adorable) and actually started to like it, minus every single thing I mentioned above. Our instructor’s name was—you guessed it—Jesse, which is everyone’s birth name in Colorado. He was 21 (illegal to be in a position of authority while also being younger than me), from Manhattan (ok he learned how to ski on frozen puddle water?), and had these long curly locks that reminded me of Christmas present ribbons. And he was, in fact, a ~gift~. He was cute on the outside but all Billabong on the inside. It’s like that time my parents gave me a vibrating box on Christmas and I got excited for ten seconds before realizing it was just a cell phone, and not a thrusting exact replica of Nick Jonas' penis.
I know what you’re thinking...and sadly no, I did not go down Jesse’s half pipe—which is actually how I refer to every penis all the time and not just when I’m making a pun. I did, however, catch him peeping over at my frost-bitten, rock-hard nipples, which does legally make him my fiancé.
That's right, Jesse are I are getting marred in the spring. Although I am a bit concerned that once he defrosts he will simply melt into nothing but a penis—which in his case is actually just a chicken tender from the ski lodge.
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