Even my hair hurts

It’s been three full days and I’m still in agony.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, I wasn’t riding the bull at Roosters, or practicing my dance moves, or honing up on my bow staff skills.
Rather, I was learning to snowboard. Learning, however, is being kind.
I spent my Sunday up at Mt. Seymour reacquainting myself with God.
Yes, that was me, throwing myself down an icy mountainside, shouting His name and hoping to hell He was paying attention to me and my husband who was busy doing the exact same thing, minus the “Oh, sweet Jesus. Sweet baby Jesus’s!”
Yes, I’m still sore, but my abs are likely as sore from laughing at hapless, but determined, Ken as they are from balancing on a narrow, fiberglass strip.
There’s nothing quite as hilarious as watching someone with absolutely no skill for the sport aspire to be the head of the class. When the instructor (I am being generous here, because the instructor was pretty much retarded) asked who wanted to be first, Ken got up (however briefly) and set the gold standard.
He must have bailed about 10 times on his way down the bunny hill, arms and legs flying. Each time he bailed, he got back up again, determined to best that blasted board.
Eventually he did, by gum.
I took it a little slower, fell a little more gracefully, but just as often.
And only once did I manage to vanquish the rope tow. Only once did it succumb to me, and in challenging it so many times and failing, I managed to rip the crap out of a pair of loaner gloves.
Little pieces of those mitts are now scattered across the mountainside.
I left myself on Mt. Seymour.
But I will go back.
I will triumph over this sport.
I’m also going back because I wrote a nasty letter to the ski school about our crummy instructor.
Turns out folks, if you want free stuff, just write a letter of complaint.
Works every time.