Look at them, those long, white, snowy lines of powder.
I spent all last weekend snorting them up.
It was quite a binge.
Two weeks ago, I was jonesing for snow.
But then I pawned my fishtank, sold some plasma, and scrounged for loose change in the sofa cushions. And whaddya know…I got me some, and after the flakes fell, I started frollicking in the stuff around the clock, neglecting sleep, friends, and work as I went on my spree.
In fact, I’m still coming down from a lost weekend of unrestrained, immoderate self-indulgence.
Some people looked at our newly-fallen gutter glitter and thought, “Well, iddn’t that purty?” In our household, however, we were like Aaron Sorkin with a new coke mirror, pack of razor blades, and rolled up Benji in his quivering hands: we went a little wacky on the junk.
We got amped on skijoring.
We ate weasel dust tossed onto our faces by a slew of runners at the start of the 2007 U.S. National Snowshoe Championships outside of Minneapolis (you rocked it, Groom!).
Seven kilometers into the race, Groom redefined “blow” as he whooshed past.
Because our addiction naturally translates into a cycle for the children, even Girl took off down the dusty roads.
A little later in the day, a friend and I (shout out to i-jim!) reveled in Lady Snow, as well, running the Citizens’ race at the championships; #102 suits me, doncha think? And note how my triumphant finish rallied the crowd, rousing them to a series of cheers and chants of “Jocelyn, Jocelyn, Jocelyn.” Either that, or they spurred me to the finish line through their passionate indifference.
After racing off our jitters, we spent the rest of the afternoon inner tubing down those long lanes of powder that started this post. At the end of each run, we’d stop and mist a little Ocean Spray up our nostrils, just to fool the bouncers.