When I fell on my ass, there wasn’t a person more motivating than her to get me back on my feet.
There she goes, whizzing right by me, goofy grin and all. That miserable little kid.
And him. With his arms outstretched like he’s trying to dry his armpits.
They couldn’t have been more than eight years old, those tiny runts. It’s like they were born with snowboards attached to their feet. How else could they be gliding down this friggin’ hill so easily?
I imagine their mothers must have vaginas the size of Barry Bonds after giving birth to four foot snowboards with kids attached to them, boots, bindings and all.
As I leap to my feet, an infant swooshes by, shearing me by microns and slapping my face with slush. I swear I could see an umbilical cord dangling behind him.
There was no way I was going to let toddlers do better than me. I leaned forward and began to surf the snow once again. The thrill of speed came back, the adrenalin radiated through my body, the snow—
—the snow suddenly and rudely grinded into my nostrils again as I pitched forward, face-first, down the slope.
“Haw haw!” hooted a passing four-year old miscreant.
I sat up and dusted the snow off my chin. Musing aloud, I said, “I give up. There’s no way I’m going to learn this. I just don’t have that Snowboarding Gene, the one these miserable little rodents were apparently born with.”
“Miserable little rodents,” I repeated, punching the snow.
On cue, a stocky Baby Boomer plodded by. His arms were wailing wildly at his sides, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gaping for water. The whites of his eyes bubbled out of his sockets. Then the moment of truth—PLOP—he fell into the snow.
He looked up at me, a defeated shell of a man.
A tiny girl, not much taller than, say, the soul of my boot, skirted by. But not before hurling two ice-packed snowballs at us. “Hee hee hee!” she crooned. She turned back and stuck her tongue at us.
“Is there no justice in this world?” said the Baby Boomer.
I looked back down at the tongue-wielding pixie and in that moment, something changed. It must have been her balance. By turning around to taunt us, she didn’t see the four-year old miscreant that passed earlier.
And with a pleasing THUMP they collided.
Just then, total and utter motivation flowed back within me. I was going to show these little runts something, even if it was going to kill me. Their collision was a Sign, a Signal from High Above that it doesn’t matter how young or old you are—anyone can still fall flat on one’s ass while snowboarding.
I got up. The Baby Boomer, with a grin on his face, did the same.
We nodded to each other, packed some tight snowballs, and started down the hill towards the miscreants.
What motivates you?