Onto the second half of this challenge and, while it's not getting any easier, I'm glad I took the proverbial over. And speaking of getting easier...
After we moved to Colorado, my wife demanded that I learn how to ski. She wisely refused, however, to do the initial teaching because she knew it would be folly to subject our relationship to that needless strain. See, she'd started skiing soon after toddling. So, when the time came (as ultimatum's often necessitate), she parked me in a lesson with three other anxious adults and Jack Cletcher, an instructor who combined the best attributes of grandfathers everywhere and Santa Claus. Jack got me up to speed on the resort's beginner runs and, even better, he helped me safely scrub that speed when things got dicey.
My wife took over from there. The next few times we skied together, she whooshed and shooshed me down intermediate and expert runs, through moguls and trees. She fished me out of tree wells; made comments like, "We should probably buy you a helmet;" and laughed along with me as I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and reassembled the scattered gear that had inexplicably ejected me -- or I, it. "You're in my ski school now," she told me, suggesting that getting all this hard stuff out of the way would make the return to intermediate terrain as smooth as freshly groomed corduroy snow.
And therein lies the lesson I cling to now as I bump over the hump of this year's Slice of Life Story Challenge. When the time comes to blog on a less-than-daily schedule, it's going to feel downright do-able.