Winter meltdown

What is with this insanely warm weather? It’s August, for the love of Pete. But it’s not just any August, it is the August before the September that we are going to Falls Creek...to the snow; i.e. the white icy precipitation that is supposed to fall from the sky in cold climates. Bugger.

The last ski trip I went on was also to Falls Creek (that cursedly warm Victorian winter wonderland) eleven years ago. I have the mugs to prove it. My then fiancé had planned a grand honeymoon adventure, involving rising at 6am the morning after the wedding *blanch*- wait for this - and driving for two days to the ski fields. Romantic? I think not. Alarm bells should have been a-ringin’ at that point right there. What a disaster. It was the warmest season for a long time. Probably the warmest…until, say…now.

Nevertheless, we are on our way in less than a fortnight. Excited, yes, but also floored by how much it has cost to get the family decked out in all the gear. When I consider the price of accommodation, lift and ski hire, food and petrol, I shove my fingers firmly in my ears and sing the ‘la la, I’m not listening song’ (yes, if you’re creative enough, you can even ignore yourself. Or is that if your personality is fragmented enough? Whatever).

I’m guessing that the snow paraphernalia industry is worth millions considering how much they are charging. Isn’t it all made in sweatshops? I had to scrape myself off the floor before I could pay the lad at the ski store, which is undeniably important practice for the snowfields considering my skill level.

Did I mention that this holiday was not my idea?

The only way to rationalise the expense is to say ‘What the heck, it’s only money’. (Cripes, I hope Mark didn’t hear me think that!) And to a point, that’s true. But I can list a kazillion greater ways to spend those numerous dollars than on such frivolous fun. Dare I mention feeding starving children? (Nope, too spineless).

Do I desire to evade the reality of poverty? Or does a part of me wish for a taste of being without, that I might have a smidgen of understanding about just how well off I am? Something to ponder as I swoosh through the powder, or slosh through the muck, as well may be the case.

In the words of my favourite sloth; ‘Slalom, baby’.