Jessica Harper Uncanceled

“Shall we go on a skiing vacation?” my husband said this week. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

He’s tried this before, without success. This was just his latest attempt to get me to risk life and limb participating in an extreme sport.

Now, you’re probably thinking: “Jess, get a grip, skiing is not an extreme sport.” 

Well, to me it is. My idea of an adrenaline rush is renewing my library book on the expiry date. (One time I didn’t quite make it, arriving as the shutters were coming down, and sat up all night, twitching the curtains to see if they were coming for me). 

Skiing, it seems to me, is as about as safe as driving your car down the road with the entire chassis removed. Just you with a seat and a steering wheel, whizzing down the highway at 50mph.

I don’t know why hubbie Brandon persists in his mission to see us and our son all killed, or at the very least wet, angry and $20,000 poorer (okay, maybe it doesn’t cost that much, but however much it costs, I would resent splashing the cash to stand in the frickin’ cold. This is meant to be my vacation, and you want me to spend it on my ass, being laughed at by my husband?).  

FUN FACT: I have never crashed into anything while lying on a sunbed.

There have been plenty of warnings over the years. Two celebrities spring instantly to mind as skiing fatalities: Sonno Bono (of Sonny and Cher fame) and the actress / Liam Neeson’s wife Natasha Richardson. Racing driver Michael Schumacher, a man who cheated death in the most dangerous of sports (Formula One), succumbed to catastrophic injuries when he went off-piste and hit his head on a boulder while skiing in the French Alps in 2013. He is still alive but in a dire state.

I’ve told Brandon to find some pals to go with but for various reasons that’s not always easy, especially for men, who seem to generally maintain few friends, and couldn’t herd a bunch of 40-year-old marrieds together with a cattle prod and a Hooters season ticket.

My motto is Relinque corpus tuum. Leave your body alone. I’m having it incorporated into a crest of arms. Come on guys, for the love of God, relinque corpus tuum.

We are not made of steel. Bones snap, hearts stop, arteries spurt, spinal columns severe. You need them all.

Skiing (yes, I’m not done with skiing) also seems to attract a lot of showoffs (snowoffs? You’re welcome) and I’m talking about my family here, notably my perfect sister and her perfect husband. “Oh, look at John skiing backwards,” coos my mother as she watches them on video.

“Oh well,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll learn to do it properly one day.” I may not be able to ski backwards but I can tell great jokes, er, forwards.

My sister and brother in law are always doing weird sporty stuff. Kayaking, mountain biking, abseiling, and whenever we’re all together my mother looks at me over the dinner table with what I perceive is an unspoken question: why aren’t you doing these ridiculous, unsafe things, Jessica?

Because I think it’s tempting fate, that’s why.

I’m not entirely risk averse, however. I sometimes go boxing (not boxercise, but boxing) and I didn’t mind being punched in the snozz occasionally (actually it improved my looks). 

And I once went up in a hot air balloon in France, because I was on a freebie through work and the hot air balloon trip was the central attraction, meaning I couldn’t wimp out (I was writing an article on it). 

It was terrifying and I don’t recommend it. The pilot (that’s a bit grand, he was a fat guy drinking wine and cackling) waited until we were just about to crash into some beautiful rooftops before adding a bit more propane and lifting us up out of harm’s way. You watched death slowly approach you… and then go away. And then you land, which if you’re lucky is a controlled crash landing. Ours wasn’t too bad, although I nearly spilt my sauvignon blanc.

You’ve all seen the stories in the news. Some guy who climbed El Capitan (Spanish for “Unclimbable Death Mountain”) using only his thumbs, in sub-zero temperature and blindfolded. AND TRAGICALLY HE FELL OFF AND DIED.

The “blindfolded thumb-climbing community” will of course, be devastated, and not quite able to process that this has happened to “one of their own”.

“Thumb-climbing blindfolded is still the safest sport,” someone will say. Someone in a hospital bed, speaking through a computer.

“It’s what he would have wanted,” someone will say. Someone who works for Blindfolded Thumb-Climbing Tours.

No, what he would have wanted is a trampoline.

Then there is wingsuiting, which is skydiving using a webbing-sleeved jumpsuit, giving the user increased lift, allowing extra air time by gliding flight rather than just free falling. I’m fascinated by wingsuiting, which seems the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen. I like to watch YouTube videos of wingsuiters (warning, graphic content) while sipping a cup of hot chocolate, my cat on my lap.

Seriously, what are you doing? If you want a rush, walk through any Democrat-controlled city after dark, carrying a laptop.

Reading this blog post back, I see that I’ve got quite worked up about skiing, a sport I have never actually had to take part in. Consider it a warning shot across the boughs. Boughs? Isn’t that just trees? Bow. Bow? Boughs. No, bow. Hmm, boughs?

I once defrosted some burgers in the microwave, even though it said defrost slowly in the fridge. I survived but it felt like a walk on the edge. Hey, you get your kicks and I’ll get mine.

Maybe I should agree to Brandon’s plea and take that vacation with him.

I wonder what the skiing’s like on Aruba.

PS I’ve looked it up. It’s bow.