A turquoise blob's delusions of grandeur

I was halfway down World Cup, the last ski run of the day, when I noticed the crumpled heap of white among the icy white of the snow. 

“Jackie, are you OK?”

My friend was fine, but she had fallen and re-tweaked a shoulder injury, her skis popping off in the process. Her husband, Derek, hovered over her.

“Can you take her skis to that flat area—“

There may have been more to Derek’s question, but I didn’t wait to hear it: My friend was in distress, and I was going to save the day! I tucked Jackie’s skis under my right armpit and set off down the slope.

Jackie and the author -- before "The Incident"

I’m not a great skier, but I am a fairly aggressive one. And as this was my inaugural ski weekend with Jackie and Derek, I was, perhaps, a tad susceptible to showing off; earlier in the day, I blazed past each member of our four-person party as they navigated the Ridge Run, and in doing so, completely missed the turn-off to our meeting spot. Jackie, Derek and Matt, my husband, watched, amused, as I struggled to traverse an uphill slope and regain their company: two arms waving two aluminum poles and two legs strapped to two 156 mm sticks flailed wildly from my bulky ski costume as I jumped and thumped at the fresh powder in a bid to gain the necessary momentum. From their vantage point, I likely resembled an enraged turquoise blob.

So here was my chance to save face and truly impress my friends! I had been in Jackie’s position before, knocked off my skis and unwilling to navigate the remainder of the slope on anything but my keister. I would lighten her load by transporting her gear and placing it at the foot of the slope so she could slide down at her own pace. Had such a daring endeavor ever been undertaken? I think not.

Swish. Swish. Swish.  I imagined Derek and Jackie marveling at my puffy but somehow still svelte form as I zigzagged down the mountain. I was an Olympic alpine ski racer. I was the head of the ski patrol. I was a Heavenly employee in one of those ubiquitous Helly Hansen ski jackets. (Damn, those jackets are sleek.) 

Upon arriving at the base of the slope, I settled onto a set of bleachers and placed Jackie’s skis neatly in front me to await her arrival. A young kid, presumably awaiting a parent, sat a row behind me. I wanted to inquire if he had observed my heroic descent, my selfless sacrifice to save Jackie, but he was playing a game on a smartphone. Anyway, where was Jackie? I gazed up the slope. Jackie hadn’t moved. Why hadn’t she moved?

I watched the distant white blob that represented Jackie not move for a few minutes and then I watched the blue blob with the cherry red helmet that represented my husband approach and appear to converse with her. Derek, a black blob, had since moved up the slope. What was going on? I didn’t find out until the blue blob navigated the moguls and joined me on the bleachers.

“Are you ok?” Matt asked Jackie. “What’s going on?”

“I fell, but I’m OK.”

“Where are your skis?”

“Megan took them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Jackie said. “And Derek’s videotaping the whole thing.”

So apparently the end of Derek’s sentence, the one he finished uttering as I flew down the slope, was, “—right there.” As in approximately five feet away from his wife.

The video Derek posted to our shared photo stream, the one Jackie captioned “Damn you Megan,” shows Jackie scooting downhill as she propels herself forward with her two ski poles, the only equipment left at her disposal.

“This is Jackie sliding down on her butt down the entire mountain right here, down the entire trail. You can see the little trail right there. See it?” Derek narrates, using his index finger to trace his wife’s butt scoot and then adding a thumb to lovingly pinch the white blob into oblivion.