For some reason the Spring Cleaning Bug hit me this fall. I decided to go through my closet with a vengeance and get rid of the many, many clothes that fill up my closet and are way too big for me.

Whenever I bring home new clothes, I see a look of confusion cross my husband’s face. He never says anything, but his face clearly says, “What the heck? All your clothes don’t even fit in your closet, why the world do you need ANOTHER <whatever it is I just purchased>.”

I have kept clothes that are way too big and that I will never wear again for YEARS. As I pulled out all the clothes and sifted through them, moments of time walked in front of me and things I had forgotten about quickly came to mind.

I cannot scrapbook without sprouting grey hair, so perhaps my closet was my scrapbook.

I found old coats with pockets full of grocery lists, movie tickets, blistex, receipts, and random notes.

A pile of memories from coats past

It seems this pocket was from 2003. The winter that Nancy and I nearly died from frostbite in the Death Trap while trying to register for a stained glass class. This receipt is proof that we registered, and lived to tell about it

Stained Glass Class City Arts Centre Receipt. Proof that Nancy and I lived through the arctic adventure of registering for the class.

It also appears that I was apprehensive about asparagus in 2003.

Grocery List from 6 years ago - apparently asparagus was questionable back then...

As I dug through the clothes, I found a cache of McDonald’s shirts. Memories of competing and winning Gold in the grill competition in the All American Games popped up. I will never forget managing the store while wearing a polyester grey skirt, a purple button down shirt, orthopedic shoes, nylons, and a super sexy tie. Who says being 18 isn’t awkward?

McDonalds - they sure knew how to dress a girl!

My sweatshirt from my senior year of high school was mixed in with the McDonalds’ outfits. Suddenly, it was as though I was in Civics class with Mr. Hodus discussing Bill Clinton’s indiscretions and trying to wake up, as it was only 7 am.

Rogers HS Senior Class of 1998.

Deeper into the pile of unknown, I found my NABC sweatshirts. Someone convinced me to purchase an x-large one my first year. I was a chunky girl back then, but even still it was big on me.

3 of the same sweatshirt - just different colors. Overkill anyone?

There's enough room in here for two of me!

Nobody needs 3 of the same large letter sweatshirts – even if it gets down to -40 where you live.

Then I went for the large, hanging garment bag. The bag with the old bridesmaids dresses from my larger years. I have had these dresses for 10 years, and don’t really know why. So I put them all on to see how ridiculous they all looked on me now.

As I wore each dress, memories of the days wafted into my mind.

I was with Mandy as she married Tim on a crisp, clear winter day. Perhaps the sweetest brides I have ever seen.

Navy blue satin from 10 years ago - a sweet, winter day

A flurry of activity and stress to replace fuchsia flowers from my sister’s bouquet so there was no clashing in the pictures jumped into my mind. Panic became relief when Jody came to the rescue. My sister was gorgeous that day with her burgundy roses.

Memories of my sister looking gorgeous

Walking down the isle at Cara’s wedding in bare feet to watch her dreams come true as she married her best friend will not be easily forgotten.

The day Cara married her best friend

The dresses look absolutely horrible, but the memories are beautiful.

I bagged up all the clothes, the 16 years of memories that I couldn’t part with until yesterday, and put them at the door.

Old clothes out the door, but the memories will stay

I don’t need to keep the clothes to remember anymore. Now I have room in my closet for all the clothes that actually fit and new memories. Best of all, now I have a good reason to go out and purchase some new clothes!

In most cases, if I say white, he would say black.

I grew up reading books.  He grew up playing sports.

He loves a crowd and tons of people around all day long.  I love the solitude of an empty, quiet house.

I know many people wonder how we ended up together.  Some days I wonder too….but then there are some days that I know we are meant to be together.

Jon came into our marriage with 2 large Japanese windsocks, boxes of papers, clothes, sporting equipment, and a lack of domestic skills.  I came into our marriage with art, coordinating linens, clothes, and an overflow of domestic skills.

In an attempt to balance out the domestic responsibilities in our first few years of marriage, I tried to teach him how to cook.  This resulted in rice sandwiches for supper.  I quickly realized cooking was not a good idea for this man, even if it meant we got rid of all the leftovers.  Or perhaps he has an iron stomach.  I never gave us the opportunity to find out for sure, I just took back all the cooking responsibilities.

After awhile, I realized that laundry was possibly his sweet spot.  He quickly learned a few things about doing laundry:

• ALWAYS check the pockets.  Pens tend to explode in the dryer.
• Bleach does a great job of getting a stain out, but it also takes all the color out of your pants…
• Gum travels quickly to all garments when left in your favorite pair of shorts. 
• Jeans and white dress shirts do not make good load mates…

After awhile, it seemed Jon was really getting the hang of doing the laundry.  So much so, that I decided it was safe to put my clothes in his capable hands.

He gathered, sorted, washed, and dried those clothes like a pro.  One day I went to see how the laundry was progressing and was so happy to observe that he had a complete load of only pink and reds.  He was washing his winter coat that happened to be red and put only appropriate items with it.  What a guy!  My whites were safe in his hands. 

While Jon perfected his laundry skills, the winter temperature dropped abruptly and he found himself wearing his newly laundered red coat to NAIT every day.  It was so cold some days that he had to pull his hood up and cinch it up around his chin so he didn’t get frostbite while walking from the far off neighborhood where he parked the car for free.  He was often so cold from the walk in, that he wore his coat, hood and all, for quite some time indoors in an effort to warm up.

About a week later, he reached in to his locker to grab his clean, red winter coat only to feel something very soft, something very out of place, in this accounting student’s locker.  To his shock and horror, he found a pair of my red underwear stuck to the Velcro on the hood of his clean, red winter jacket.  The underwear had cleverly spread out and attached itself to the whole hood of the coat by finding 4 or so points of contact with Velcro.

He quickly ripped my matching red underwear off his hood and shoved them into the pocket of his coat.  How many people noticed the underwear stuck to his head, but failed to mention it to him?  He walked down the halls of NAIT with a pair of my underwear stuck to his head for about a week, yet no one said a word.  Not a single word.

Perhaps sorting laundry according to color is not always the best choice.

Now we each do our own laundry – it’s just safer that way.

A man came up with the idea of skiing – I am absolutely sure of it. I don’t know many women that would decide to strap long boards to your feet, climb thousands of feet up a sheer mountainside and then slide down as fast as possible while trying to avoid trees, cliffs and other natural speed bumps with only two thin poles to assist you in not dying. I know that many women enjoy this sport – but I don’t think that I am one of them.

A few years ago, my husband and I went on a ski trip with his University to Kicking Horse Resort in Golden, BC to celebrate New Years. It was a last minute addition to our holidays, but it was FREE! I love free things, so I agreed after a few moments of contemplation. Then I promptly went out and purchased snow pants, gloves, ski socks, and a few other cold weather necessities since I start to freeze whenever the temperature drops below -8 Celsius. I realized that I would be spending some quality time face to face with immense amounts of snow, so I decided to be prepared! Any excuse to shop really.

Jon and I heard that snow blades are the way to go – so we each rented a pair on the mountain and strapped them on. Once we were ready to start skiing I immediately had to go to the washroom. I started the hike across the lodge in my ski boots. When you rent your skis for the first time, you should have to participate in a class called, “Walking in You Boots Without Making a Fool of Yourself”. You have absolutely no mobility from your big toe to your mid calf.  It’s extremely difficult to not look ridiculous while walking. I clomped awkwardly and very loudly across the lodge and nearly tumbled down the stairs about three times before I reached the bottom.

Finally Jon and I started skiing…or I thought we did. We started down a hill of about a five-degree incline close to the ski lift. I started to scream and panic. Jon started to sigh. We saw a ski class in action 30 feet up the small slope so I laboriously side stepped close enough to covertly eavesdrop until it became obvious that I was doing everything they were doing only 10 feet behind them. The ski instructor gave me a nasty glare, so I decided it was best to move on.

After a few more times down my ‘practice hill’, we started up the ski lift. Why don’t people explain things to you? Do I look like a woman that knows what she is doing? The ski lift has a safety bar that you are supposed to pull down so that you don’t fall off the lift. How are you supposed to know about this blessed safety feature if no one tells you? Jon and I traveled thousands of feet up the side of a mountain and hung hundreds of feet above the earth wearing slippery pants without the safety bar in place. I clung onto the side rail for dear life and tried not to lose my poles or blades. I even made a comment about how a safety bar would make the ride up the mountain way less stressful. The worst part was when the lift would stop and start to rock back and forth – it felt like we were a mere quick stop away from learning how to ‘heli-ski’, and I definitely didn’t want to learn that on my first real skiing adventure. The last time I ‘skied’ was when I was 14 years old with my youth group at Crystal Mountain. I stuck to the bunny hill and the rope tow. I eventually got up enough nerve to try a hill at the end of the day, but ended up using my skis like a sled and slid down the hill on my butt. Looking back now, I realize that day can’t actually be classified as skiing. Everyone who heard this was my first day of skiing grimaced, shook their heads, and told me that Kicking Horse is an expert mountain.  Then each and everyone one of them wished me luck. Thanks. If there is one thing I am not, it’s an expert at skiing.

Once we managed not to slip off the lift and arrived at the top of the Catamount lift I had a small scale panic attack. I suddenly realized that I had to go down the hill on the boards I had happily strapped to my feet just an hour earlier. I desperately wanted Jon and I to have a happy couple experience, so I tried to smile and to ski across the hill. It took me about 15 minutes of skiing back and forth while trying to keep the panic at bay to make about 300 feet of progress. Jon, my husband from Saskatchewan (the flattest Province in Canada), patiently coached his stricken wife from Washington (a mountainous region in America) on the finer points of how to ski without sliding face first down the mountain. We continued our slow, very painful progress until we reached a part of the run that had a cliff off the left side and a rock wall on the right side with a steep incline. I started to slide quickly towards the cliff, so I desperately turned towards the rock face and went completely out of control. I bailed, went face first into the snow, and nearly ran into the rock with my face. Both of my ski blades flew off and I and started to shake uncontrollably from overwhelming fear.  I then broke down into hysterical sobbing. People we knew skied by and waved happily. Jon and I averted our faces.

My husband convinced me that it was best to keep skiing and that we couldn’t stay at that location indefinitely…no matter how warm my snow pants were. I think what really got me to move was the snowboarders that kept jumping off the cliff above me and landing just inches away from me. There was no safe place on the stupid mountain! After what felt like an eternity, we finally reached a point where we could see the lodge and only had a thousand or so feet to go. Earlier on the mountain I had thought this moment would be a happy one, but unfortunately for me it was a steep section of the mountain and there was nowhere to go but down. I completely lost it.  Tears of terror ran down my face and I started to sob uncontrollably. I decided the best course of action was to take off my skis and slide down the last thousand feet on my butt right underneath the chair lift. After wrapping myself around one of the posts holding up the ski lift, I took off my skis and started to slide down the hill in my slippery pants. Skiers and snowboarders stopped to watch what the crazy, sobbing woman was doing. Fortunately, once again, Jon convinced me to put the skis back on for safety reasons. When I reached the bottom of the hill after 2 hours of painstaking work that would normally take about 30 minutes for an average skier, I just sat there and cried with relief. Jon just sat there bewildered.

We took a lunch break and worked on getting me to be able to breathe normally. Skiers are such friendly people! Normally I would have loved talking to the people that were there from all over the world. One woman asked how the skiing was and I couldn’t help it, I started to cry. She seemed to think that my boots were hurting my feet. I let her think that, it was less shameful than tell her that I was scared to death of the mountain. I decided it was best not to talk to anyone since I couldn’t do it without crying. I just kept my eyes on the ground and tried to overcome my fear.

After another hour or so, I decided to try skiing down the mountain again. After all, I’m not a quitter! This time was better, I didn’t cry (even though I really wanted to), but I still couldn’t stop without falling over. Once again, I guess I need the basics explained to me. Heck as if I know which ski is the downhill ski!! Apparently I had it mixed up which would explain the inability to stop. If you put all your weight on the downhill ski stopping is not an option, you just keep heading down the mountain! How was I supposed to know which ski was the downhill ski? This sporting stuff just does not come naturally to me.

I didn’t want Jon to have a horrible ski experience with me, so I went up a third time. I even remembered to breathe and use the safety bar on the lift. We had an hour to get down the mountain. I thought that this was a reasonable amount of time since the previous time was done in less than 2 hours. Due to my mini panic attacks and falling over it took longer than expected and our departure time was looming. There was a distinct chance that we would miss our bus taking us the 15 kilometers down the mountain back to our hotel. After such an epic day of skiing, the last thing I wanted to do was miss the bus ride to the hotel. We absolutely had to hurry and there was no choice but for me to go as fast as womanly possible down the steep part of the mountain. I nearly took out 3 small children and a snowboarder in my uncontrolled screaming descent down the hill. The screaming notified the more advanced skiers of my arrival and they promptly got out of the way. When I arrived at the bottom of the hill I enthusiastically ripped off my skis and happily gave them back to the rental shop. We caught the bus just as it was ready to leave. I sunk into my seat, glad that I hadn’t died during my first day of real skiing.

Let’s be honest, skiing just isn’t for me.

If these things happen to you, skiing may not the sport for you either:

• You break out into a cold sweat when you start to slide down a miniscule incline that isn’t even part of the actual mountain.
• You ask the ski lift operator at the bottom of the hill if you can take the lift back down if you are too afraid to ski down.
• When someone asks you how your day of skiing is going, you break down sobbing and are unable to form proper sentences.
• Your skiing partner who is as inexperienced as you starts to ski backwards, encouraging you to move towards him down the hill.
• It takes you 5 times longer than the average skier to get down the mountain.
• You find yourself sitting in a snowdrift, praying for the end of the world to come so that you don’t have to finish going down the mountain.
• And finally, the day after skiing the sorest parts of your body are your hands from your death grip on the ski poles.