‘Too Cold To Snow.’ I heard that phrase for the first time just before I left for the Frozen Tundra. (no, this is not about football – it’s about snow and ice)
I now know there must be such a thing as too cold to snow because yesterday I landed in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, aka ‘The Frozen Tundra’, and am experiencing bone-chilling cold as I’ve never known.
Here are some pictures taken before I knew better than to stand outside.
Ok, ok, so I took the photos from inside the rental car. It was still really cold out.
The temperature last night was 28 degrees. WTF? I don’t own clothes for 28 degrees! I own bikinis. (It was originally going to be 16 degrees but I panicked and changed my flight. Twice. I TOLD you people I’m not well.)
Do you know what temperature it was a couple nights before I left Texas? 73 degrees! SEVENTY-THREE degrees at night!
This is the current temperature in Sioux Falls. (Why, you ask, are my butt-cheeks turning blue in Sioux Falls? Another one of those “anniversaries of my 29th birthday” is rapidly approaching and I need to renew my driver’s license. Why South Dakota? Because South Dakota is one of the few states that caters to full-time RVers. SD is awesome!)
Can you guess where Chickenbone (my sister) is? She’s in HAWAII. Again. What is she doing in Hawaii? She’s posting pictures ‘from the lanai’ where she’s having breakfast. Bitch.
This is just so wrong. She likes to snowboard, she should be in Sioux Falls. I like the beach and have no plans to ever try skiing again. Once was enough.
I will now tell you about my one skiing trip…
It was a double date, many years ago. To protect the innocent, namely me, I’ll call my date Joe.
First, you should all know I’m afraid of heights. Very afraid of heights. Skiing is all about heights. And it’s about going downhill at fast speeds – another thing to which I’m allergic. I probably wanted to impress Joe or he talked me into skiing, I honestly don’t remember.
In my first attempt getting on the ski lift, I completely missed getting on. Awesome. The second time, I barely made it onto the lift without falling – and that was only because Joe pulled me up onto the lift. Yup, way to impress him.
Getting off the ski lift was just as screwed up as getting on. If Joe hadn’t covered it, I would’ve been smacked in the back of the head by the lift.
Whomever invented the “ski lift” is a sadist. I’m sure s/he imagined unsuspecting skiers would crack their skulls on the edge of the chair as they exited. Then there are those poor souls who just tumble down the hill, ass over tea kettle.
I am now permanently petrified of ski lifts. Seriously.
But what scared me the most was the bunny slopes. Sure, you laugh, but then you’re probably not afraid of bunnies. Heights, I mean heights.
It went like this…
Me (on the ski lift, pointing to the slopes): Oh no! Look at that mountain! We’ve passed the bunny slopes! (looking over my shoulder, trying to see the bunny slopes we’ve somehow passed)
Joe (looking perplexed) : Those are the bunny slopes.
Me (now in full panic): NO!! Those are huge! We have to get off NOW!
Joe: But… (my panic dawns on him) Uh, ok.
Me: What were you thinking??
Joe then recounts the story of how he learned to ski. Knowing I didn’t know how, he thought he’d teach me the way he learned: By taking me to the Black Diamond run and giving me a shove toward the bottom. Luckily for me, I panicked when I saw the height of the bunny slopes.
Panic can be VERY useful.
Ok, I know. You were all expecting some hilarious story about my being hit in the head with the lift, or tumbling down the mountain, or a screamingly scary run down the Black Diamond slope.
UPDATED: I made it back without any frostbite. A bit of a squeeze or two from TSA, but no frostbite. All of my flights made it without going through scary storms. The cold wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, and it didn’t rain/snow while I was there. My butt-cheeks are now back to their normal pinkish hue.