Whistler (We Weren't Olympians)

For some reason I'll never understand, I agreed to spend our 25th anniversary skiing. I'm not a skier. I don't like cold weather. I had never even been on skis until I was 45. That was another anniversary trip. Can you see the pattern? I don't do much for my husband. I love him, sure. I might watch a few minutes of the Super Bowl with him; after all, it only happens once a year. But hurling myself down an icy mountain on skinny sticks defies logic. And Whistler is more than a mountain. Actually, there are two at the resort--Whistler and Blackcomb. Neither is something I'd choose to propel myself down willingly. Unless I wanted to show my wonderful husband of 25 years that I'd do anything for him. Day one I twisted my knee on a "green" hill. I'm not sure what "green" means in Canada, but it must have a different definition than here in the USA. Even my sweet husband agrees This Was Not a Green Hill. Somehow I managed to continue skiing for six days, injured as I was. It wasn't until the last couple of hours of our last day that I just couldn't take another minute. Loving spouse that I am, I agreed to sit patiently while Hubby took one more run down the slopes. As I sat waiting (in the cold, I might add), I realized just how bad my knee ached. Yes, God sent this wonderful man to me 25 years ago. But look what I'm willing to do for him! And I've never let him forget it.