Run out and buy stock in A5-35 immediately

It looks like we are going to take a family ski trip to Banff this year in February! For those of you unfamiliar, Banff is a gorgeous little resort town at the foot of the Rocky Mountains in Alberta that specializes in soaking every red cent out of anyone who visits. The town is so beautiful that you literally gasp whenever you set foot outside – every single time. The Banff area businesses take full advantage of the tourist’s wonderment because the cost of doing anything in that town is at least three times higher than doing it anywhere else. I once ordered a club sandwich and a coke at a Banff restaurant and my bill was $32.

However, we found a pretty good deal on accommodations at a little condo/resort type place about 5 miles from town and last week we confirmed our reservation. We’ll also be able to drive there from here, so all and all it shouldn't be too bad on the ol’ pocket book.

We are going to go skiing.

Me and skiing have somewhat of a sorted past. Unlike many of my friends who grew up in this country, my parents never took me anywhere so I never learned how to ski. I’m also not exactly the most naturally athletic or graceful person you’ve ever met, so at first glance skiing shouldn’t really be my thing. But, much like interior decorating and penning the next literary masterpiece, I have the desire to be good at it, but I’m not really.

I have baby pink plastic venetians hanging in my living room. And, you have clearly all read this blog.

Just call me Solieri. No, I don’t think that is entirely accurate. Solieri was good just not great. Call me Solieri’s nerdy little cousin who sucks at stuff.

The last time I went skiing in Banff was when I was sent there for a work conference about two years ago. When the conference was over, Politika flew in from Vancouver and joined me in Banff for a weekend getaway that did not include any husbands or children. Not knowing what do to with ourselves under such circumstances, we considered trying to get some of our Banff-jacked money back by hitting the bar to get hammered and dance topless for rich Japanese business men. But, good judgment and a fear of leaked facebook pictures managed to prevail and we decided to go skiing instead.

Politika can ski quite well (of course she can), and I…..I had a new jacket. So, after a lovely breakfast buffet at the hotel we loaded our stuff onto the bus and headed out to the gigantic mountain prepared and contented to strap skinny boards to our feet and hurl ourselves down the slopes at lightening speeds with little precision.

I like to take a ‘ski a little’ ‘drink a little’ approach to skiing. Since I’m not that great at it, the entire time I am on the mountain every muscle in my body is so rigid I’m bordering on rigamortis.

And don’t try talking to me because my mind is singular in its focus and determination to stay alive.

As you can appreciate that gets a little tiring, so after a few runs I like to have a beer or two. And no, it doesn’t matter if it’s only 10 am.

Politika is very nice and humoured me by slumming it at the green runs now and again, but mostly she was swooshing down the quadruple black double mogul plummet-to-your-death-at-any-moment runs. Of course she was.

All in all it was a lovely day and I only had one near death experience, but I was saved by a charming and handsome Aussie who rescued me from the clutches of my extremely uncooperative ski bindings and helped me limp by tired ass down the mountain. I was seriously considering resurrecting the dancing topless plan to express my gratitude, but alas, he just wanted to continue skiing. It was a little cold out for that kind of thing anyway.

We made it back to the room alive and I think we even ventured out that night for a bite to eat. Everything was just fine until the next morning.

OH MY GOD. My legs have never, ever, ever hurt that much in my whole life. I felt like the ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ lady. I was pretty sure that while I was sleeping someone had drugged me, split my legs open and practiced tying intricate boy scout knots with my leg muscles.

For the next solid week, whenever I was confronted with a flight of stairs I would retreat and decide that wherever I was originally intending to go could live without me. My two kids who have bedrooms in the basement? They could have been hosting raves and Texas hold ‘em tournaments down there and there was nothing I could have done about it.

It was way bad.

So! Skiing again for me in February!

I’m bringing some morphine and a flask of weed-laced moonshine this time.

Fat Chick vs. Food - Week..... ah fuck it

This whole diet/exercise plan thing has come off the rails a little. Okay, a lot. Okay, almost completely. Most of my new ‘I’m skinny now!’ clothes have now gone back to their oh-so-familiar home at the top of my closet. They are out of the way enough that they are not taking up valuable moo-moo space, but still close enough that they mock me every time I open my closet door.

Sigh.

It was pointed out to me a few weeks ago that I was far more successful at dropping the pounds when I was blogging about the whole being fat thing on a regular basis. That is true, but it’s kind of a chicken and egg thing. I stopped blogging about it regularly because I wasn’t really doing anything positive in that area, and reporting that I just plain ol’ sucked AGAIN each week makes for some tedious reading. That, and well…I’m not super proud of the fact that I fell off the diet wagon. Again. For about the 459th consecutive time.

So, good or bad I’m going to start blogging about my big fat ass again each week. I swear I mean it this time. I pinky swear. I even best-friends-forever swear. I just spit on my palm and wiped it on my monitor and everything.

I’m starting with a new sense of resolve today after having a horribly indulgent weekend covered in football, beer, and all the good food that goes so well with football and beer. Our team won, by the way, so I now have next weekend to contend with too, as our beloved Saskatchewan Roughriders are going to the Grey Cup on Sunday (for all you Americans, the Grey Cup is Canada’s answer to the super bowl). I really hope those fuckers win, otherwise my football, beer, and all the good food that goes so well with football and beer weekend will have all been for not.

There is an upside - the whole city is freaking right out about our football team and therefore huge jerseys are practically a mandated uniform right now. That is a great deal for us fat people.

So! Instead of announcing my poundage lost like I did the last Fat Chick reporting cycle, I’m going to adopt weekly goals/challenges for myself and report back at the end of the week on my progress. Trainer Lady (she has a website now – go check her out!) is on vacation this week so I set the following goals knowing I will have to live without her -

1. Work out five times in seven days
2. No eating after super
3. No booze

Just those three goals. Short…..sweet…..simple. I can do it.

Does a milkshake count as ‘eating’ after supper?