Hello My Name Is

Brought to you by an overabundance of gravity and an underabundance of grace. There's noplace like the ski slopes for getting one's comeuppance -- or comedownpance, as the case may be.

I styled myself quite the downhill diva in my early teens. I liked the rush of speed skiing afforded, and I had just enough confidence to take on the moguls from time to time. I got in a bit over my head one day, however, and landed badly after a small jump. By "badly" I mean that I alit on my back, snowballed for several yards, and came to rest with my head pointed downhill and the back ends of my skis jammed firmly into the snow. With gravity pulling at my torso, wearing snowpants and a jacket too slick to provide any traction, I could not get my hands up to the skis to free my boots from the bindings. I was stuck. Stuck. Flailingly, helplessly stuck. And there was snow packed into the neckline of my coat.

I wasn't the only one helpless, either. Dad, bless him, had stopped a few feet uphill from me, and while he tried valiantly not to laugh at me, he just had to. He did it quietly, but he did it. After spending a few minutes doubled over, he schussed gracefully to my side and hit the boot release. I slid another couple yards and collected a couple more cups of snow down (up) my neck. Seeing that I was unhurt, few onlookers applauded before continuing their runs.

As if Dad laughing and strangers clapping weren't bad enough, I quickly discovered that something even worse had occurred: the wipeout had put an L-shaped tear in the back of my ski pants, up one leg and across the seat. I had to complete my descent with a mudflap fluttering behind me. I was too embarrassed to be thankful that I hadn't seriously busted up either my body or my equipment.

Little did I know, but there was more to come!

We found Mother Media at the bottom of the hill (in her hunter-orange parka, she was hard to miss), and, once convinced of my safety, she quickly found a solution to my ventilation problem. She clunked off toward the ski school office and returned with a handful of adhesive-backed patches -- the kind that say "Hello, my name is ______." Over my protests, she used them to glue my gluteus back together. It was only through great wailing and gnashing of teeth that I dissuaded her from filling in the blanks. My butt might be a billboard, but at least no one could identify me by name.

I think I was the only person on the slopes not laughing at me that day. But I learned.

The lesson stood me in good stead a year or two later when I wrecked again. As I coasted slowly toward the lodge, some friends called to me from overhead in the chairlift. I braked to a full stop and looked up to yell back to them, lost my balance, and kissed snow. Disoriented, I hit face first and broke my goggles right in half. Everyone on the lift, and quite a few people on the bunny hill nearby, applauded. This time I bounced to my feet and bowed with a flourish.

Coming soon: More stupid human tricks!

Don't miss your chance to contribute! Learn about Senor Editor's phantom arachnid, Grassmaster's gullibility, and SAS's gas problem!

Today around the world: February 25 is Revolution Day in Suriname. There is no downhill skiing in Suriname, which enjoys a tropical climate on the northern shoulder of South America just above Brazil. If there were, my bum would have blared (in Dutch), "Hello is mijn naam ______."