More 2011 Angst
If you’re like me, then the only thing you’ll be warming yourself with on Christmas is your own boiling rage. This year, I’m shelving my copies of Love Actually and It’s A Wonderful Life to instead revisit my Top 12 Holiday Horror favorites. After all, violence rates tend to peak during this time of year; it’s best to let someone else do the slaying.
I’ve only been to a ski resort once in my life, and my time there ended on a stretcher. Along for the ride on the best-funded Girl Scouts field trip I’d ever attend, I didn’t really know what I was in for. Everyone else in my troop had previous experience on the slopes. A sturdy dozen of golden-haired children from happy middle-income homes, this assortment of girls from Troop 1100 was well-prepared for our Winter adventure. I, on the other hand, was a foster brat who haphazardly obtained my recreational winter wardrobe as a series of ill-fitting hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. I stood out like a pair of assless pajamas in a crowd of brand new neon snow suits with matching accessories; I think my pants were salmon. As in salmon-colored.
When we arrived at the venue, several girls paired off and went their separate ways. They were familiar with their surroundings and what was expected of them, and as a result I quickly found myself alone in front of what can only be described as a “curious-child killing device.” It was essentially a lift for the bunny slopes; red rubber triangles connected to a long cable would run up the length of the snowy hill transporting skiers to the top. The idea behind this mechanism was that I would be able to grab the rubber triangle, hold it tight and slowly be led up the hill by the cable, as though a very strong person were holding my hand and pulling me to my destination. I don’t know if my gloves were slippery or if I was simply uncoordinated, but instead of gently ascending, I tripped and stumbled for roughly forty feet before finally losing grip and letting go. My body fell backwards with such force that I began rolling down the hill behind me. Every time I tried to stop myself, I instead seemed to push and bounce my body upward, causing me to build even more momentum. I continued rolling down the hill until I hit a large tree-bush (I don’t remember if it was a tree or a bush, as I blacked out immediately afterward). One of my Girl Scouts chaperons had been apparently watching in horror the entire time. 20 minutes into the trip, and one kid was already seriously injured. The outing was ended, and when I went home from the hospital and returned to a troop meeting the following week, I was told by several perfect-looking young girls in brand new flare-legged jeans how much I had ruined everything. I quit Girl Scouts pretty quickly after that.
If you’re like me, then the only thing you’ll be warming yourself with on Christmas is your own boiling rage. This year, I’m shelving my copies of Love Actually and It’s A Wonderful Life to instead revisit my Top 12 Holiday Horror favorites. After all, violence rates tend to peak during this time of year; it’s best to let someone else do the slaying.
I’ve only been to a ski resort once in my life, and my time there ended on a stretcher. Along for the ride on the best-funded Girl Scouts field trip I’d ever attend, I didn’t really know what I was in for. Everyone else in my troop had previous experience on the slopes. A sturdy dozen of golden-haired children from happy middle-income homes, this assortment of girls from Troop 1100 was well-prepared for our Winter adventure. I, on the other hand, was a foster brat who haphazardly obtained my recreational winter wardrobe as a series of ill-fitting hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. I stood out like a pair of assless pajamas in a crowd of brand new neon snow suits with matching accessories; I think my pants were salmon. As in salmon-colored.
When we arrived at the venue, several girls paired off and went their separate ways. They were familiar with their surroundings and what was expected of them, and as a result I quickly found myself alone in front of what can only be described as a “curious-child killing device.” It was essentially a lift for the bunny slopes; red rubber triangles connected to a long cable would run up the length of the snowy hill transporting skiers to the top. The idea behind this mechanism was that I would be able to grab the rubber triangle, hold it tight and slowly be led up the hill by the cable, as though a very strong person were holding my hand and pulling me to my destination. I don’t know if my gloves were slippery or if I was simply uncoordinated, but instead of gently ascending, I tripped and stumbled for roughly forty feet before finally losing grip and letting go. My body fell backwards with such force that I began rolling down the hill behind me. Every time I tried to stop myself, I instead seemed to push and bounce my body upward, causing me to build even more momentum. I continued rolling down the hill until I hit a large tree-bush (I don’t remember if it was a tree or a bush, as I blacked out immediately afterward). One of my Girl Scouts chaperons had been apparently watching in horror the entire time. 20 minutes into the trip, and one kid was already seriously injured. The outing was ended, and when I went home from the hospital and returned to a troop meeting the following week, I was told by several perfect-looking young girls in brand new flare-legged jeans how much I had ruined everything. I quit Girl Scouts pretty quickly after that.
4 December 2011
