s(No)w Fun

It’s on January days like this that I again have to ask myself the question.

“Why in the heck don’t I live in a more temperate climate where the mercury only moves a mere five degrees in either direction?”

And then I remember that the beauty of changing seasons is one of the things I love most about West Michigan.

Thunderstorms that generate colorful arcs through the clouds and huge puddles to dance in, as well as the promise that dreary and gray will soon be transformed with spring’s multihued rebirth.

Frolicking sandy shorelines while waves tickle the toes, indulging in ballpark frankfurters and s’mores, playing tag with fireflies, and gazing with wonder at a gazillion twinkling stars in the summer sky.

Brisk autumn winds swirling a blaze of fallen foliage, munching on juicy Honeycrips, and carving smiling pumpkin faces.

But you already know how I feel about Jack Frost’s iciness and brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I would honestly be happy with just three seasons. Can we vote on this? Okay, okay. Even though I’m not fond of it, winter too is part of my territory. I can either take a cue from the northern members of the family Ursidae who hibernate for months on end or I can get out there and enjoy it. As tempting as that former idea may be, the latter is probably far more practical. But I’m not doing this alone. Deni, the boys and I, as well as friends Tom and Jean and their grandchildren, conspired to an afternoon of sledding.

It’s been a while since I last played in winter’s wonderland and I have long since outgrown a warm fur-trimmed snowsuit.

I did remember, though, what I needed to do to brave the elements; layering was the key. Microfiber tights, wool socks, leggings, and stretch pants on the bottom; a cami, long-sleeved tee, turtleneck, wool sweater and down parka on the top. Add a pair of boots, mittens and earmuffs and I was good to go. Which, as I waddled toward the door bundled up snug as a bug in a rug, is exactly what I realized I needed to do! Definitely reminiscent of my childhood days … and again probably TMI. I guess some things never change, huh?

Soccer bowl by summer and ultimate sledding hill when the snow flies, Charlie’s Dump (as it’s known by the locals), was where my posse would convene. I found them positioned near the Porta-John. Coincidence? The hill appeared to be the happenin’ place as it teemed with people and sleds of all shapes and sizes. Everyone was having a great time.

Grab a kid; let’s go!

I shoved off for my first ride with Kaden and all the way down screamed like, well, a girl. Whoa! I don’t remember the hills being THAT fast or the sleds so hard to control. When was my trusty wooden Flexible Flyer on metal runners that you could actually steer replaced with these faster-than-lightening plastic things that take you nowhere near where you intend to go? Add one light-as-a-feather four-year-old to the front of such a sled (that would be Kaden) with all the weight in the rear (that would literally AND figuratively be me!), and you’ll eventually find yourself zooming down the slope backward … and taking out an unsuspecting fellow sledder on your way. Since I don’t have eyes in the back of my head (I’m not a mom, remember?), I didn’t even know what I had hit until I saw him somersault over me. Welcome back to the fine sport of sledding! Since the rules have obviously changed, I wonder … do I get points for all the bodies I bowl over? Fortunately, both he and I emerged unscathed. Unfortunately, I would not be so lucky on Take 2.

I figured I’d better do the next run alone, folded myself into a saucer and was off. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee! It picked up a lot more speed and even went airborne when I hit a bump. I felt like Aladdin soaring through billows on his magic carpet. Actually, it would have been nice to have a genie grant me three wishes. My first would have been for a safe landing.

As gravity would have it, I did indeed make contact with the ground again … and took the full force of the impact in my lower back. In a word: !@#$%^&*! (Read:  Ouch!  This is a PG-rated blog; I can’t post what I really said!) My remaining two wishes? (1) please don’t let me pass out; and (2) please don’t let me throw up. I lay there for what must surely have been an hour before Deni, Zhak and Kaden gracefully slid in next to me and she wondered if I was okay. I could barely grunt, “No. I hurt my back.” Sister Nurse to the rescue.

She told me to lie on her sled and she’d pull me.  Though I was able to assume the same position that Kaden had mastered for his return trips up the hill,

it’s much easier to tow one light-as-a-feather four-year-old than it is a slightly majorly lumpy middle-aged woman in pain. Tom even came down to help, but they only managed to get me half way up the hill. I TOLD you I’ve put on extra weight these past few months! By the time I crawled my way to the top I thought for sure I was going to die. A hot shower, heating pad and handfuls of anti-inflammatories were in order. After only two fateful rides, I called the sledding thing quits.

You never realize how much your back comes into play until you strain it and feel every twist and turn in those muscles. Like when you have to get into a car and drive home. Or like when you try to bend over to blow dry your hair or brush your teeth. How about rolling over or even just getting out of bed? Fuh’get about it. And going to the bathroom? I’ll spare you from all those details, but let’s just say it was much easier to accomplish when encased in aforementioned layers of clothing.

I’ll be hobbling around in my tennies for the next week or four (no stilettos for this girl), but I think I’m going to live. I’m also seriously considering removing No. 15 (learn to downhill ski) from my Bucket List. In the meantime, I trust you’ll understand if Old Woman Lynn opts to endure the remainder of Old Man Winter inside instead of outside.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to Google “places to live that never get snow and, hence, have no sledding hills.”