generally, when I tell people that I live in Vermont, my answer is followed up with an excited, "Oh! Do you ski?" to which I have to snort and reply with a big fat, "No."
I was not one of those New England kids who are born with skis strapped to their feet. many winter sport lovers will tell you that they were shooting down mountain sides before they could walk - not me, my friends, not me. my parents were much more interested in cross country skiing, and slow, peaceful treks through the woods with coyotes howling and long, cumbersome skis tied onto my feet just never won me over. factor in the extreme cold, my poor circulation, and the sadness of hand-me-down ski pants, and I really had no choice but to develop a strong dislike for afternoons spent on the slopes.
it's my cross to bear, I suppose, and I've come to enjoy my leisurely weekends while the rest of Vermont is standing in line at one of the many ski resorts within an hour drive of my apartment. I can sleep in, lounge in my PJs for ages, sipping on a hot beverage. I don't spend loads of money on a season pass or equipment, and I don't have to worry about suffering through the next few months on crutches or in a cast because of a nasty spill.
ski season, as well as the upcoming Winter Olympics, has me itching to only wear big cozy sweaters, (faux) fur, and giant sunglasses to protect my eyes from sunlight reflecting off of fresh snow. thankfully, you don't have to do the ski part to look like you just spent the afternoon hitting some pow.