winesoakedramblings – the blog of Vickie van Dyke

First off, I admit, I love The Bachelor (and Bachelorette). Go ahead, you can pooh-pooh reality shows all you want and when you fall off your mighty high horse come on over to my house for some wine and some wild and crazy television fun.

I will also admit that I am a big fan of Juan Pablo and Nikki.  Not because they are awesome human beings (how the heck would I know?) or even cuter than George Clooney and Jennifer Lawrence (sorry, my two current celebrity faves, but no they should never get together because of the age difference and George I hope you’re listening ….).

I like them because they chose to respond. Not react.

Okay, I know they sound like the same word and we all probably mix them up daily without a second thought.  But tonight I ask you to put down that Pinot Grigio and give a second thought.

Are you a responder or a reactor?

And just in case you’re scratching your scalp, wondering if I’ve galloped past the first glass of wine and am just a little tipsy, allow me to offer up my own personal definitions:

Respond: To listen, then think first, weigh options, calculate results and then act (or speak).

React: To knee-jerk without thinking and act (or speak or yell or slam the door) upon the first impulse you feel.

Now I ask you – which do you think will yield the most favorable results?

I used to be a professional reactor.  A word which by golly, when examined closely, contains the word “actor”, which by golly I also was.  Dramatic, histrionic, LOUD.  Whatever feelings and emotions were inspired by any given situation, those were the feelings and emotions that influenced my reaction. There was very little (if any) thought involved. Just gut reaction. And I can tell you from first-hand experience that gut reaction rarely leads to a positive response. What it leads to is the other person’s gut reaction to my gut reaction and then defensive behaviours and loud voices and ultimately fighting over shit that happened a long time ago, shit which has nothing to do with the present conundrum. It leads to chaos.

However, when you actually pause to reflect upon the situation, by golly your response becomes measured and controlled, lead by level-headed reasoning as opposed to hot-headed backlash.

Here’s a story that might illustrate this point:

My beau and I had been together for about six months and during the last two of those six, I had on occasion quite casually thrown out the “I love you” phrase. You know, in a light-hearted, what I hoped was non-threatening, non-prodding way.  More in a “statement of fact” way.  Because, indeed for me, the words rang true.

Then one evening shortly before our first Christmas we were engaged in a somewhat argumentative conversation about how and where we would spend the holidays and I blurted out (in frustration) “Do you love me?”

My query was greeted initially with silence and then with those three little words every woman longs to hear –

“I don’t know.”

Yep.  Talk about a romantic nightmare come to life.

So … let’s look at what my reaction would have been:

I would have calmly (yet icily) got up, grabbed my things, stomped to the door (we were at his house) and coldly announced “Well tell ya what, honey?  When you figure it out, give me a call.”

And I would have left in a huff, driven home in tears and either held him hostage to a declaration he wasn’t prepared to make or ended our relationship completely.

See, this is why I so get Juan Pablo and Nikki.  I love that couple.  I love them because they didn’t subscribe to some Disney-fied version of what their love story should be.  They didn’t subscribe to what the producers of The Bachelor define as a “happy ending”. They didn’t react to their weirder than weird circumstances.

They chose to respond. With integrity, honesty and hope.  Hope that maybe, just maybe, if they did this their way, in their own time, without succumbing to audience reaction and Chris Harrison’s charming yet very real bullying, they might actually be able to build a real relationship.

And that’s what I did with my beau. I chose to respond.

I asked calmly if he didn’t think six months was long enough to figure this one out?  We weren’t, after all, teenagers? How long did he think he might need?

He then replied that he also didn’t know that he didn’t love me. He just didn’t know.  And he thought it best that he not utter a single word until he was 100% sure.

And wasn’t that a good thing? he added. This way I could be absolutely certain that he meant every word that he ultimately might say.

Okay, thought I (and thought is the operative word), what’s really going on here?  

And I realized immediately it was a battle against vulnerability. For whatever reason, he was not yet ready to be vulnerable. And saying those three words would lay his heart defencelessly on the line.

So I asked myself some questions.

Did I want this relationship to continue? Yes.

Was I willing to be patient? Yes.

Could I just shut up and leave it alone or would I feel compelled (as in the past) to flog this horse to death?  Um … I would try.

And so try I did. Christmas came and went (we spent it apart) and the new year brought a renewed closeness to our relationship. We skated fairly effortlessly through almost 5 months, a time during which he started to sign cards with “love”.  But he still didn’t say those magic little words.

Until he finally did.

And here is the moral of this story: Had I reacted instead of responding, I’m quite sure we would not still be together. My gut-level, knee-jerk, entirely emotional countercharge would have blown up in my face.  As it turned out, my measured and impassionate reply lead to further discussion, increased trust and … love.

And yes, well over a year later we are still together.

We still have discourse, sometimes unpleasant, and we still – both of us – sometimes react instead of respond.

But if I remind myself that I know the difference and if I remind myself (even after lapses) that responding is always better than reacting, well I think we have a really good shot at making this work.

I am really really really rooting for Juan Pablo and Nikki.  I’d love for them to get married and have two babies and be together forever.  Because yeah, I wish them happiness but really I want them to totally stick it to those silly starry-eyed romantic reactors who didn’t get their Neil-Lane-ringed sunset-fading Hollywood-Harlequin ending.

My guess is, kids, very few of us gets a Harlequin ending.  But what we can hope for and aspire to (with hard work and regular reality checks) is real, solid, messed up but worth it, everyday love. Which in my opinion is pretty damn nice.

So remember, to react or respond, is always your choice.

All you have to do is make the choice that will get you where you want to go.

VvD:  What was it like to win the first ever Broadcaster Of The Year award at the 2005 Smooth Jazz Awards?

Vickie:  It was amazing. It was all based on fan votes and the competition was incredible. When they announced my name I just couldn’t believe the fans voted for me!

“She was the only Broad in the Broadcaster category. If they wanted a guy to win they would have called it Guycaster Of The Year. Besides, I think she was offering a buck a vote”

(Anonymous voter)

VvD:  Well this has been fun. Thanks for talking to me.

Vickie:  No Problem. I do it all the time.

“That’s why she sees me.”

(Vickie’s therapist)

or …. It’s My Gig and I’ll Cry If I Want To.

I am a big believer in The Universe.  And I do believe The Universe (feel free to name it what you will) does speak to us regularly. We just have to choose to listen.  Or at least pay attention.  But really, how many of us are so absorbed in the minutiae of daily living that we forget to notice the signs?  Read them?  Interpret them? 

Pick me.

My beau however, the scientist, the guy who (due to his methodical nature) may not be so inclined to subscribe to Universe mumbo-jumbo, reminded me just yesterday that The Universe was speaking loud and clear to me.  And perhaps I should listen.

You see, on Sunday night I sang a little jazz at The Lowville Bistro, a wonderful, intimate, friendly establishment that has been my musical home for many years now.  I used to be quite a regular there, performing with different trios every second Sunday.  Now it is just a sporadic arrangement, with me showing up perhaps twice a year.  But my fantastically faithful friends/fans still come.  And they engage.  They listen.  They applaud.  They appreciate.  They laugh.  They make me feel like I am doing something right.  They are amazing.

The problem is me.  Whether it’s hormones or thin skin or just old age, I find this outpouring of love to be overwhelming.  Especially when I sing one of my all-time favorites – Moon River, the song that typically closes the night.

So there I was on Sunday night, warbling my final notes and thanking (personally) every one there (oh how I love the staff and the patrons) and my two regular band-mates have just performed beautifully and my old friend T has shown up to offer breathtaking vocals and side-splitting comedy and then my old sax-man C shows up – JUST TO SIT IN.

Yep, not to make money or further his own successful career but just to sit in for the last set because he wants to.  And it’s not like he lives next door or anything.  It’s not like he doesn’t have a beautiful pregnant wife waiting at home.  He comes because he misses playing with me and he wants to sit in.

And then … because these two incredible musicians have shown up and shared their substantial talents FOR FREE, I put out the brandy snifter and suggest (light-heartedly) that perhaps just maybe the grateful audience might show these boys some love.  You know – financial love.

And my fantastically faithful fans/friends do not disappoint.  My two guests end up earning as much as the rest of us.  Deservedly so.

So yeah, there I am mooning and rivering and thanking and gosh darn don’t I start to cry like some blubbering idiot and I can’t even talk anymore much less finish the song.  So I hit myself over the head with my mic a few times, sputter and croak, wipe my snotty nose and say goodnight.  To all these beautiful people who aren’t even mad that I didn’t even actually sing the last song.

Yes.  I am a heart-on-my-sleeve kinda gal.  Especially when I’m singing music that stirs me to my soul.  But I also like to count myself a professional.  You know, somebody who can sing instead of cry.

Maybe just not anymore.

So I say to the wonderfully kind and supportive manager R, I say You know what? I can’t do this anymore.  I just get too emotional.  It takes too much of a toll on me. I just can’t …

And I actually mean it.

And then my beau and I  come home and put my band gear in the basement for the first time.  It’s been living in my brand new outdoor shed (easier access) but my beau has decided that it should live indoors.  And since he doesn’t mind lugging it around, I agree.  Down it goes.

24 hours later we hear a loud “bang” in the back yard and lo and behold, the shed’s (new) roof has collapsed under the weight of a crazy winter’s worth of wet snow.  Imploded, so to speak.  My bicycle is mangled.  Our small outdoor bistro table is smashed. But other than that it’s just cushions and garden tools because Oh My Universe all my band gear is safely nestled in the basement.

Yes there is a point to this blog and there it is.  The Universe (according to my scientist) was sending me a message LOUD AND CLEAR.  The gear is safe.  And dry.  And ready to be used again.  Because Vickie, you will sing again.

I guess so.  I do love to sing and I am blessed to make music with some of the finest musicians on this planet.  So I won’t give up, hormonal emotions be damned.  I will show up when asked, sing my heart out and be grateful for the opportunity to do so.  Very grateful.

But Universe or no Universe, I can’t guarantee I won’t cry.

Please bring Kleenex.

I am a gypsy at heart, could pack up and move in a heartbeat (okay realistically maybe two days) and I really don’t have a lot of stuff.  I mean I have stuff – enough stuff – to live comfortably and make a nice home but I am no packrat.  My basement is filled with Christmas decorations, photo albums and old movies.  And my boyfriend’s stuff.

You see, I made a very conscious decision to “desentamentalize” (yes, I made up that word and it’s a good one) a few years back. Before that I was madly in love with any old thing that brought forth a good memory.  Then, after my 4^th move in six years, I decided my heart could hold the memories and (almost) everything else I could liquidate.  And I purged.

Now I have a couple of plates that came from Russia with my grandparents in 1924. They were only allowed one small trunk so yeah, these plates are pretty special.  I have a few of my parents’ wedding gifts; things I grew up with and always loved.  But just a few. Like one pink coffee set and some Torquay pottery.  I have a few things that came from my son and a few things that I just like. But there’s not a lot of clutter in my home and I don’t spend any time at all dusting knick knacks.

The other thing I don’t have is “good dishes” and “good china”.  I have dishes and china (my parents’ wedding china) and silver and some nice wineglasses but they are not “good”.  And what I mean by that is – I use them all the time.

I know so many people who save the good stuff for special occasions – holidays, birthdays, other unique celebrations. But why not celebrate every single day? Or maybe every week-end? Or maybe just Tuesdays and Thursdays? Who cares? Get those old wedding gifts out of storage and use them. That is, if they make you happy. If they drum up bad memories or you really can’t stand Aunt Mildred’s choice of china, then by all means keep the good stuff locked up (better yet get rid of it). But if drinking that glass of cheap wine out of cut crystal makes you happier than drinking it out of a chipped coffee mug, then do it. Whenever you feel like it. Even oh-my-goodness … every day.

Which leads to …

Stop worrying about breaking stuff.

I used to do this. A lot. Worry about using the good stuff because I didn’t want it to get broken. I mean Holy Crap whatever would I do if I lost a tea cup or a serving platter?

Stupid. The truth is if I lost a teacup or a serving platter (I am somewhat clumsy) I would either replace it or learn to live without it. And I would rather enjoy my stuff frequently without worry than keep it locked away out of fear.

Case in point – one Christmas when my son was about 7, we were unpacking ornaments, preparing to decorate the tree. My mother had recently gifted me with her collection of antique baubles, some I had grown up with and some that she had grown up with (my Grandmother’s). Not only were these treasures irreplaceable, they held huge sentimental value to me. I was terrified that my boy would accidentally drop one.

Guess what?  He did. It was my second favorite growing up – a dark blue ball with a frosted white church (my favorite was dark pink with a frosty Santa and sleigh). The ornament shattered and so did I. And then I screamed a string of blistering accusations at my poor son, who stood there helplessly clutching the hook with rivers of tears flooding his little face.

And then it hit me. The ornament, precious as it was, was just a thing. But my baby was a living, breathing, sobbing, remorseful child and my reaction to this accident was killing him. I stopped my screaming immediately and scooped him into my arms. We sat on the sofa for a good fifteen minutes while I cuddled him, wiped away his tears and assured him that I knew he didn’t do it on purpose, I knew it was a special treasure but I also knew we had many more and I knew he was far more important than a thing.

Two funny things happened afterwards. We continued to unwrap the decorations and lo and behold, we came across another perfectly intact dark blue ball with a frosty white church. Now, I swear that we only had one when I was growing up (my mother doesn’t remember) so where this new (old) one came from is to this day a mystery. But it adorns our tree every year. And every year when we unpack ornaments my son (now 21) frets about potentially breaking the “special” ones. And I remind him that if they break, they break. Things typically don’t last forever. What’s important is that those things brought us joy and helped us make marvelous memories.

The other thing that happened took place the Christmas morning immediately following the incident. While we opened gifts I always indulged in a festive cocktail – champagne and orange juice. That year I was using one of my two (working towards a set) $100 crystal wine glasses. Honestly, why I had decided to work towards a set of hundred dollar wine glasses still escapes me but I inadvertently elbowed it off the kitchen counter (told you I was clumsy) and it smashed on the ceramic tiles. I hardly flinched.

“Oops!” I smiled as my husband rushed in broom in hand and my son waited for the inevitable tantrum.

It did not arrive. Because the ornament had taught me a valuable lesson. And I wasn’t about to ruin Christmas morning because of a broken thing.

Funny thing – a few months later I was hosting a birthday party for a friend and I gave her the remaining $100 wine glass to enjoy (somewhat ceremonially). Alas it too met its doom that night (I’m not the only clumsy one) and she was mortified. Again, I didn’t even flinch. “Just a thing,” I assured her. “Now let’s get you another glass!”

I never did complete that set. Now I buy $7 wine glasses. And if they break, they break. But they sure do provide tons of happiness while in service!

So don’t live in fear.  Bust out the good stuff and enjoy it whenever you want. Why the heck not?

As for me, it’s time I go dress for dinner.  Let’s see … Friday night movie in front of the television?  Hmmm … I think I’ll wear sequins.

I have a truly awesome boyfriend.  Above and beyond awesome.  He takes out the garbage.  He shovels the driveway … and walkway … and deck … and outdoor fire pit.  And, I’m sure you can appreciate how gargantuan a task that has been this winter.  He moves furniture whenever I ask, brings me coffee in bed and walks my dog happily. 

He even thumps me every night.  I know, I know – you’re suddenly all a-titter.  But I mean this literally.  I have a very bad back and a thumper.  An electronic massage device that is an absolute Godsend as long as you have someone willing to thump you.  Because self-thumping kind of defeats the purpose.  I mean you’d have to contort like a Russian gymnast.  Anyway yes indeed he thumps me every night, much to the consternation of my chiropractor who has not seen me in months.  

And you know what else he does? 

He reads to me.  Out loud.  Before we fall asleep.

Honestly, I have mentioned this to a few girlfriends and they all just sigh.  Hell, I just sigh.  A man who will read to you and thump you?  In the same night?

Yep.  He’s a keeper.

Except for last week when, no word of a lie, I found his very breath – the inhale, the exhale, repeat ad infinitum – to be annoying. I found his hair to be annoying.  I love his hair.  It is dark and thick and fabulous and last week when just one stray strand graced the sink or tub or pillowcase I was fully and completely annoyed.  His laugh annoyed me.  His silence annoyed me.  When he spoke it annoyed me and when he ignored me hell yeah I WAS ANNOYED!

Why, you might ask?

Well … as happens with most couples … we had a miscommunication.  And when it became apparent that we were speaking two different languages we opted to let it go.  All in an effort to  maintain equilibrium.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

See, here’s the thing: if you don’t address a problem full-on, get to the root, sort through it and RESOLVE it, it festers like some blistering ulcer and seeps into every aspect of your relationship.  You know, things like hair and silence and breathing.

How do I know this?

In all honesty (as compared to all the other times of lied to you) – I heard it on the radio.  Funniest darn thing but last week while driving, and channel-flipping, I happened upon a chat show where the “expert” said just that.  Relationships don’t thrive when problems are not addressed and resolved, said he.  They fester.  Until eventually you don’t even know what you’re fighting about anymore.  You just know that you are fighting.  And annoyed.

Makes sense to me.  Because the truth is we live in a very moment-to-moment world. Sure we try to keep big-pictures in mind, but when we are hurt, when our feelings are hurt, when we are misunderstood and feeling unheard … well even George Clooney doesn’t stand a chance.

So … my guy and I?  We dove back in.  We hashed it out every which way but Sunday until we finally achieved some resolution.  It wasn’t fun.  But it was necessary.  It brought us back to a clean slate.  No old issues, no unresolved anger, no silent sulking or passive-aggressive bullshit.

And tonight I will cook dinner, he will take out the garbage, I will get thumped and then he will read to me.

And tomorrow, when a few of those fabulous dark hairs grace the bathroom sink, I shall simply smile and say Damn, I have a good-looking boyfriend …

Further to my last blog …

I did it.  I rose to the challenge and did not fall trying.  I faced that mountain head on, I skied my ass off (well, actually that’s not true because there’s still far too much of it there), I did not fall, no sir, not even once and I lived to tell the tale.

Barely.

Because today I can hardly move. And that is in no way even the tiniest exaggeration. My elbow aches (who knew you could get ski elbow which is like tennis elbow except you get it from shoveling snow and poling, two winter sports at which I apparently suck).  My back aches (most likely from tensing up, trying not to crash or maybe just because I’m old) and worst of all, my legs ache. My quads are in full-on revolt. For me, today, the Olympics (Go Ladies!) was all about the gold medal descent down my staircase. Never in the history of sport have you heard such moaning and whining.  Indeed, it was so painful this morning I thought I might have to choose only one floor for today’s life.  A tough call when the bathroom and kitchen are downstairs and the television (Go Ladies!) is upstairs.

So up and down I have struggled. As the day progresses, it gets worse (Day 2 is typically the worst, this I remember). I am now reduced to taking the steps one at a time.  You know, like a really old person.

Was it worth it?

Damn straight it was.  Because skiing yesterday taught me the value of karma.  The good kind.

You see, the day before my athletic shell-we-say test, I was approached by a musician.  One I’ve never met but a lovely lad.  L has some renown, we have chatted and e-mailed on occasion and he wanted to “pick my brain”.

Well let me tell you, if I had a nickel for every time a musician wanted to pick my brain or get advice or run something by me I’d own my own radio station.  And it’s not just brain-picking. I get roped or sweet-talked or damnit sometimes I even volunteer to do stuff all the time.  Stuff that I do for free. Yes, that is my go-to consulting rate.  Free.

This is why I am broke.  Most of the “work” I do, I do for free.

Now, I have long been a big believer in “Pay It Forward”.  I reckon it is our duty (and a blessed one at that) to help others.  Mentor them.  Guide them.  Save them from making the eight million mistakes we made.   So I do it often and gladly.  Except for when I’m broke and feeling sorry for myself and wishing I could turn my “knowledge” into income.

But I truly enjoyed my chat with L, especially when he told me that his mother lives near me (in Collingwood) and his uncle is the CEO of Blue Mountain.

Did you say Blue Mountain?

Yes he did.

And could your fabulously amazing uncle perhaps get me free (as in complimentary media) lift passes?

Damn tootin’, little lady.  Can’t see that being a problem.

So I file that little gem away for exactly three hours. The time it takes for my son to text me and ask if he and two buddies could come up the following day and ski Blue.  Of course, what he really means is If I come up to visit you, will you pay for my lift ticket?

I gallop back to the computer, email L, and barely an hour goes by before I have not one but FIVE lift tickets waiting for me the next day. Five fabulous freebies.

And that, my friends, is karma.  This is what happens when you pay it forward willingly, knowing well enough it may never come back.  But it always does.  One way or another, it always does.  Maybe not immediately, but eventually.

For me, yesterday, the Universe was just screaming Okay Vickie, stop feeling sorry for yourself!

Alas, the Universe is not responding to my cries of agony today.

But that’s okay too. Because this too shall pass, I did have a wonderful time on the slopes and I am fully committed to going back and trying again.

Next year.

Two things.

One – I’ve been watching a lot of Olympics.

Two – I’m going skiing tomorrow.

Anyone who knows me will not not confuse these events in any way. Mostly because my gold medal run pretty much consists of getting down the bunny hill without wiping out.  And the sad thing is – it wasn’t always this way.

I came to skiing late in life (at the ripe old age of 31) when I gamely took a group lesson at Mount Tremblant and then fought the 5 year-olds for space on the rope tow (remember those?).  But I persevered. Mostly because my (now ex) husband skied, two of his ex-girlfriends skied, these same two girls still skied with his group and it was either sit at home wondering what the heck was going on three weekends every winter or suck it up and learn.

Turns out I’m pretty good at sucking and I learned.  And loved it.  I didn’t mind falling, I didn’t mind mascara running down my cheeks and I didn’t even mind the butt-ugly ski suit my darling bought me that year for Christmas.  I loved skiing.  I went back to Quebec again and again, bought my own cool and super-trendy ski clothes, took some more lessons and improved dramatically. 

Now this wasn’t all easy-peasy because A) I am afraid of heights and B) I am afraid of heights.  The first time hubby-dearest miscalculated and we found ourselves atop a blue run (Are you kidding me? This was my first year and I was still a confirmed green gal) I just about had a heart attack. I was terrified.  Frozen in my (ugly rental) boots.  

He just looked at me like I was a nut and said “Don’t be ridiculous and don’t be scared. This is easy. Just ski the down the run.”

And so I, not caring one iota about looking ridiculous whilst seriously considering removing my skis and bashing him over the head, glared at him icily and spat “Would you be scared getting up on stage at the ACC and singing a song?”

 “Of course I would” was his response. 

“So there!” spat I again, with even more conviction. “I would not. So don’t you dare tell me about fear!”

He shut up.  Wisely.  And I skied to the bottom.  And no one died.

But that’s the thing about fear.  I can’t tell you what not to be afraid of and you can’t tell me.  We fear what we fear.

I eventually became not only a proficient blue-run skier but I also tackled most of the single blacks at Tremblant and even a few doubles (yes, I did Expo and Flying Mile).  And I loved it.

Then hubby and I split and I was too broke to ski much.  I did manage a few local hills until my brand new skis were unceremoniously stolen while I sipped hot chocolate in the chalet.  Exactly one month before I slipped on some ice and broke my ankle in three places.

So much for my skiing career.  It languished for about four years until I moved twenty minutes from Ontario’s premier downhill destination (Blue Mountain) and convinced myself to try again.  My son was with me.  He has become quite an accomplished snowboarder and his only comment on mommy’s slope style was “What the heck happened, Mom? You used to be so good?”

Yep.  Used to.  Not anymore.  Probably because it had been awhile, I had steel in my ankle, I am that much older and that much more terrified.

I did ski twice that first year and then once last.  Last year was better, perhaps because I actually had my skis tuned (who knew?).  But still, I am a two-hour skier at best.  After that, the chalet just looks too darned cozy.

Which brings me to tomorrow.  My son wants to come up and hit the slopes. My beau has a hankering to try snowboarding (he reckons if all those pot-head Olympians can do it, so can he).  And I want to go again.

Sorta.

See, the other part of me … the chicken-shit, lazy, I’d-rather-stay-home-and-cook-you-all-dinner part of me wants to not go.  Wants to give up skiing forever.

But I’m going.  We’ve pulled out my gear and my new-ish snow pants (thank God because the old ones sure as shooting don’t fit any more) and tomorrow I will ski.  Because I have realized that, as we age, and as our bodies start rebelling, it gets easier and easier to acquiesce.  Give in.  Give up. Hunker down and cozy up with a glass of wine instead of a ski pole (sorry, that sounds dirty).

But I have this crazy goal to stay young.  As young “of body” as possible, as young “at heart” as I can and most importantly “young in spirit”.   And if I give up now, what the heck does that say about my spirit?  It says OLD, that’s what.

So tomorrow I shall ski.  I shall try my best to get down that mountain in one piece with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.  I shall accept the challenge and rise to it, instead of capitulating to my fears and letting old win.

But you know what else?  For the first time in my ski career, I might actually wear a helmet.

Because ya never know, it seems wise and let’s face facts –

I am getting on.