I had my instructor fitness test two weeks ago. I am so glad it's over because it's been weighing heavily (har har) on me since I found out about it last April.
The fitness test was implemented by the resort in 2011, because legally, in interviews, you can't say things like, "So, you look pretty old. Have you noticed that you get tired faster than young, vibrant people?" or "I see you have several rolls of rubbery fat around your midsection. Tell me about a time when you saw a capable athlete who had similar rolls of rubbery fat."
But what you can say is: "For your safety, we want to make sure you can achieve the minimum requirements of an instructor! So, come to this big hot room and do a bunch of awkward shitty things in front of a lot of people, most of whom are half your age! We'll grade you!"
Actually, the test wasn't that hard but there were parts of it that were. Like, 15 pushups in one minute. (Yeah, they let you do them on your knees, but still! I had to practice for two months to even do that.)* Then there were other things that tested coordination, balance, flexibility, and aerobic stamina, which was the easiest part for me (a one foot box that you have to step up-up and down-down on, alternating 96 steps per minute for five minutes. Piece of cake. mmmmmm.....caaaake....) Then, when you pass the test, they want to measure functional movement, which involves squatting, lunging and a few other things you never, ever do in real life for very good reasons.
So you go through the drill in groups of four, and each little area has a person with a clipboard and a concertedly non-judgmental eye, and it was all fine until I noticed that the group behind me was made up of four adorable 20-something women wearing shorty short shorts--I mean these shorts were so short that the only thing that kept me from descending into a downward spiral of self-consciousness was remembering this: I'm a granny, and I've got this. So there.
And I passed. Then, they analyzed my joints and cartilage. This involved lying on a very comfortable exam table--serious!--and having a PT pull and rotate knees, shoulders, hips, etc. I thought it was very relaxing, kind of like the scalp massage you get before a haircut. Honestly, I could have taken a little nap right then and there, and I told the PT that, and she thought it was hilarious. Apparently, no one has ever said that before. This was my second clue (the first being that instead of shorty short shorts, I was wearing sensible loose-fitting clothing) that I am easing into Kooky Funny Old Lady Status. This status, as we all know, gives grannies like me the privilege of freely saying what's on our minds, because what in younger people is just obnoxious or inappropriate is downright hilarious in us. I am finding it very, very liberating.
And so next is orientation, and then there's shadowing, and then I get to introduce this amazing sport to kids age 7-teen. Hope they're as ready for me as I am for them!
*
(Pushup side note: when I was on cortisone during toe surgery rehab, I was banging out pushups like nobody's business. I was Barry Bonds: on my toes, not getting tired--I was a BEAST! Of course, I also hated everybody, and I felt like driving my car into a tree. But still--the power!)
In 1967, when IBM transferred my father from New York to Vermont, my parents bought a big beautiful house just outside of Underhill for us all to live in.
But when we moved that summer, there was an unexpected situation, and the big beautiful house was not ready to occupy.
The house was not ready to occupy because one of the sellers--an embittered alcoholic middle-aged woman named Mrs. Carvahlo--wouldn't leave. The sale of the house
had been a contingency of her nasty divorce from Mr. Carvahlo, and, either before or shortly after the contract was signed and the divorce was final, Mr. Carvahlo died, suddenly becoming not only her ex-husband, but an altogether ex-man.
That a few unlucky days had made the difference between being full heir to her ex-husband's estate and not didn't sit well with Mrs. Carvahlo ("He pulled a fast one on me!" she slurred to my mother one day). She also couldn't see how she was bound to an agreement with a dead man: in her mind, when he became null and void, their contract did, too. So she fought it, and while she did, she dug her heels into the only leverage she felt she had: our house. My father, every inch the stereotypical engineer, weighed his options and decided it would be best to just give her some time. So we ended up renting a rustic little ski chalet 20 miles away in Bolton Valley and we waited.
And waited.
We kids actually had a pretty idyllic summer and fall in Bolton Valley--for us, it was like being on a fun vacation. We were tripled up into two bedrooms, the chalet was nestled in forestland, surrounded by pine, birch, and maple trees, and a little mountain stream ran through the back. We played outside, we explored, there was a pool at the ski lodge up the street where we swam, and once a week or so, we'd get a drunken call from Mrs. Carvahlo that made us giggle with nervous delight. It went something like this:
John, aged 10: "Hello?"
Mrs. C: "Who's thish?"
John: "I'm John."
Mrs. C: "John?"
John: "Yes?"
Mrs. C: "You're a good boy. John?"
John: "Yes?"
Mrs. C: "You're a good kid. John?"
John: "Yes?"
Mrs. C: "You're a good boy."
One night, after one such phone call, my father bundled up and flew out the door, explaining that Mrs. Carvahlo had told him if he came right over they could work everything out. The next morning, I asked my mother if my father had worked everything out. She laughed and told me that when my father got to the house, Mrs. Carvahlo answered the door in a see-through negligee and offered him a martini, causing my father to hightail it back to Bolton Valley and settle in to wait some more.
Fall turned to winter, the owners wanted their chalet back for ski season, and so we moved again--this time into the unfinished second floor of the nearby Black Bear Lodge.
I don't remember much about life at the Black Bear--how many rooms our family was divided into, where and what we ate, what the drive to the two-room Smilie School we attended was like. But I do remember this: one early November day, when the snow was falling in droves outside and we kids were lying around inside, bickering in a room in an unfinished second floor of a lodge where we were indefinitely temporarily staying, my mother looked into the abyss. "Get in the car," she said. She drove us to a ski shop, and we four eldest were fitted with boots and skis. I have a very clear memory of holding my right hand straight up and keeping it there for a long time, as though I were asking a very urgent question and being completely ignored, while the handsome blond ski salesman in the red Nordic sweater used my extended fingertips to decide how long my new skis should be.
After our first few lessons at Bolton Valley, skiing became the mandated weekend/holiday activity, every winter that we lived in Vermont (we did finally move to the big beautiful Underhill house in early 1969). We kids didn't make it easy on our mother, either. Despite the fact that we mostly had fun once we were there, we fought and cried from the moment she pulled us from our nice warm beds to the time she dropped us off at the resort (first Bolton Valley, then Underhill Ski Bowl and Stowe) where the temperatures hovered between -10 and 25 degrees.
Thank goodness she ignored us.
Are you a 55 year-old grandmother excited about your brand-new ski instructor job
for the 2015/2016 season?
Do you have just two months to prepare for the qualifying fitness test that you want to knock out of the park?
Then BOOT CAMP may be for you!
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Q: How do I join BOOT CAMP?
A. Joining BOOT CAMP is easy! During the first week of September, just have surgery on your stupid little toe (you know, the one you hate? The one that almost single-digitedly ruined your whole last season?). Afterwards, you will be sent home in a special Sex, Begone!™ Orthopaedic BOOT (comes with *free* Tragi-Sock™). Then, just lie around for the next five whole days, with no walking, let alone rigorous activity, for at least the next two weeks and congratulations! You're in BOOT CAMP!
Q: What's the difference between BOOT CAMP and being asleep, or in a coma?
A. When you're asleep or in a coma, you can't play fun, hydrocodone-induced games like "How Many US Open Matches Does It Take To Eat An Entire Costco Bag Of Stacy's Pita Chips, Simply Naked Flavor?"
Q. How much weight will I lose after BOOT CAMP?
A. The special Sex, Begone!™ Orthopaedic BOOT weighs approximately 14.5 oz.
Q. I noticed it was rainy and cold every day before my surgery, but now that I am confined to the couch in BOOT CAMP, the weather outside is glorious. I guess I don't really have a question, but I just wanted to mention that.
A. Next question!
Q. I'm still not clear about how BOOT CAMP will prepare me for my upcoming ski instructor fitness test. Would you please explain?
A. I would, but the Monfils/Federer match has just taken an unexpected turn, I've got half a bag of pita chips to go, and I need to focus up. Good luck, and don't forget to ice every 20 minutes!
