“This next stretch should be fast,” I say to the group of women standing uphill from me. “Try to carry your speed to the road.” I point my skis down the fall line, but the snow is slower then I expected: I’m barely moving. The women behind me are laughing: none of them follow.
“Your pink butt cheeks,” is all she manages to say. I join the laughter. Two days ago, on our way into the backcountry hut, I bent down to buckle my boots, and the zipper on my pants—which starts in the front, wraps between my legs, and finishes just below my tail bone—separated from the track. In attempting to fix it, I cracked the zipper. I could have stuck a strip of silver duct tape between my legs to close the gap, but I chose not too.
On the second day of the trip, to the amusement of the clients as well as the two other guides, I sported a pink sarong, with my pink long underwear underneath. On the third day, it snowed, so I wore my ski pants. As the tail guide, I was in the back for most of the day. During breaks, especially when the wind was howling, there were many comments about the breeze between my legs. The women also insisted on several photo shoots, in which the gap in my snow pants was the main focus. But for the most part, the view from the back of my pants went largely unnoticed: until Sarah and I switched positions and started leading the group.
“Oh, you think this is funny,” I say, turning back around, taking a few skating strides forward, and then bending into an awkward tuck, with my ski poles splayed to the sides, and my butt stuck high in the air.
Essay from March 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment