A song I recognize. I know it, what’s that song? It continues, it repeats. That song what’s that song? that song. that song. I sing along in my head do-do do-do-do I hum, my eyelids hum. They hum and flutter open, and closed, and open. That song is not a song, it’s my alarm clock. It’s 6:00 am, the hardest part. 

On the way to the mountains, Emily points out the moon, big fat white cue ball on a slow descent, corner pocket. She points out the Starbucks, but she doesn’t need to, my nose is way ahead of her. She points out the sunrise, pretty huh? She points out that our friends from high school are still the ones we can trust. We’ve taken this drive (or one like it) many times before, since before we could drive, she and I. We’ve taken it on bikes, we’ve taken it on big wheels.   

In the Copper lot, Emily and I wiggle and squirm our way into our boots, our helmets, our mittens. Thom calls. Where you at? Emily tells him we don’t get out of the car until the last possible minute. It’s true. A moment before, my cousin, Dan, asked for the sunscreen and I rolled down the window for long enough to sling it in his direction, like the keeper of the Emerald City go away, get lost, scram, not you, Dan, but the cold. It’s warm in here, warm as emeralds, warm as Oz.  Way to be Native, girls, Thom says on the other end of the line, he’s accusing us of acting like foreigners, like Texans. Our defense: Being "native" is not having anything to prove. We turn up the heat, we shrug an apology at my cousins standing outside the car, ready to go. Cousin Dan’s wearing jeans. Good for him, whatever you’ve got. Way to be native.
 

First lift up, enthusiasm is high. 

First run down, we’re all out of breath.

Excuse me, do you have any extra breath?
Oh! I’m sorry, I’m all out. Ask that guy.
That guy shakes his head. He might be turning blue.    

Second lift up, a piecemeal analogy, about skiing and sex: Before you get out there,  you think you can go forever. but once you’re actually doing it, turns out you’re not as smooth and graceful as you thought. You look forward to it all summer and when you finally hit the slopes, your gear is a little uncomfortable, your curves are sloppy, your boot keep slipping right out of the binding. Our laughter is muffled by our ski masks, but our cheeks burn right through.   

3rd lift up, quote Demetri Martin. Bana. Bananana. Dammit!

Fourth run down, powder! I w00t  when I jump. Cousin Tony dammit!s when he hits a branch. Emily laughs when she—well, we don’t know when. It’s one of those days, she says, where I just sit on the lift and laugh.  Tony has known her for four hours, but suspects it’s always one of those days. I let him know that today’s unique because she sits on a lift and laughs. Usually it’s a chair, a driver’s seat, a floor, a rooftop, whatever. She’s a giggler; I think she gets it from me. I think I got it from her. We probably gave it to each other, back and forth, playing miss Susie in grade school, braiding it in to each other’s hair, pinning it on to one another’s prom dresses, sending it in care packages to college dorm rooms.

Fifth run down. God damn! This day is beautiful.  Is it less so if I try to capture it on a blackberry? Yes, is the answer.

Pause. Boots off, bathroom break. Drink water, people, water! Cousins Tony and Dan and I share a Pizza, family style.

Sixth run down, we reminisce. About the time we skied with a bananana (dammit!), taking turns sneaking it into each other’s hoods.  About the time Emily and Thom gave up on skiing and rode chairs down a hill instead. Chair Skis, they called them. They’re Russian, I think. About the time we spent an entire day in misogynistville comparing women to skis: I like my women like I like my skis…two at a time…waxed…straight (mostly)…It’s not that funny, so why can't we stop laughing?  It’s pretty funny; especially those analogies too crass to print, but you're creative, reader.

Seventh lift up, Emily and I start to sing Christmas carols. On the first day of Christmas my true love…Ken, between us, attempts misdirection by singing other songs, Jingle Bells Jingle Bells but we just ditch our song and sing his instead. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas tree oh Christmas tree how lovely are your jingle bell jingle bell jingle bell rock. We’re playing follow the leader. Grand Finale, sung in unison:

Dreidel dreidel dreidel, I made it out of clay…

Long pause. What’s next?  No one knows. Shrug, carry on. Dreidel dreidel dreidel, I made it out of clay. Dreidel dreidel dreidel I made it out of clay. Dreidel dreidel dreidel I made it out of clay. Dreidel dreidel dreidel I made it out of clay. Hey!  Pathetic, half of me thinks.

Seventh run down, Ken says, you know, dreidel isn’t spelled like you’d expect. Like I’d expect? Neither is anything else, ever. I'd probably get dreidel right by accident. (i didn't. misogynist either).

9^th, 10^th, 11^th runs down, I am alone. My turns are tight, my jumps are even. I’m fast, so damn fast, look at me go!  I’m swing dancing down the mountain, hips twisting, sweat glistening, a steady rhythm punctuated by bursts of pizazz. I swing between the other dancers because I have a beat to keep, the mountain is my partner and my job is to follow.