There is something unsatisfying about the gym, despite the way that my borrowed-from-my-skinny-roommate snowpants fit so much better this week, despite the aching reminder that I Done Good.
No matter how hard I strain, how many reps I do until I can't possibly lift one more...
...I never get this tired. Ever.
The way I won't be able to lift my arms over my head (let alone high enough to type without leaning them on my tremblings knees) until sometime Monday, the way my lungs are filled with terrifyingly brisk air and the way my hair smells of the snow that I've been rolling in.
My lips still taste of strawberry lip gloss that someone loaned me as they were beginning to crack in the cold.
My fingers are still defrosting.
My feet stink the heady salt stench of wet feet that have been in insulated running shoes all day.
And my brain, my brain is stunned.
Truly.
David came up this weekend, we were at Mont Olympia, one of the closer hills to Montreal.
He brought his daughters, I got to meet them for the first time.
Olivia is seven years old, and her scarlet hair sweeping down her back only made her gleeful shouts all the more poingant.
She wrestled me to the ground eleven times. The only reason she stopped is cuz after that I couldn't get up anymore.
So she helped me up.
Then I lifted her onto my shoulders and dumped her upside down into the snow.
Again.
And again.
Andagaindandagainandagain.
Eventually wee Emily, with hair just as long and just as red but with the big pudgy cheeks of a four-year-old and her father's hazel eyes rather than her sister's bright, bright blue, eventually she let go of her father's pant leg and jumped on my head too.
I stood up with her dangling from my shoulders and pretended that I couldn't find her and she screamed and screamed and laughed that infectious laugh of a happy four-year-old.
Then I dumped her in the snow.
Again.
And again.
Andagaindandagainandagain.
For hours.
And David snuck a kiss behind the chalet, while his daughters invaded the bathroom, and I think he was looking at me a little different.
I know I was doing the same to him.
Watching him wander the length of the ski hill with two adoring girls in tow, hanging off his muscled arms... He's a beautiful dad.
Watching them laugh in glee as he scooped me up much the way I was doing to them, and dumped me headfirst in the snow.
They buried me, and I tried to dig a hole to china, but they didn't think I could do it.
And an old camp counsellor of mine happened to be at the hill today, eyeing me strangely for the children hanging off my brightly logo'd jacket.
His baby brother was there too, he's twenty two years old now, with the same fat cheeks as when he was twelve.
The owner of the ski hill loved my hair.
He loved our cheesy 80s music, our neon-yellow winnebago, the way we had every child on the hill screaming in unison. And barking. Did I mention that we make them bark? It's part of our cheer.
And I even had an hour to myself to get some skiing in today.
My calves have gotten too fat, my ski boots are too tight and my legs cramp up.
I'll figure out what to do about that as soon as the rushing cacophony of the wind fades from my ears.
I don't think it ever will.
I don't think that the sun has ever been brighter.
I don't think that today will ever loose itself from the yellowed pages of my memory.