This was me a week ago today at my third and final snowboarding lesson:
Ok that wasn’t me, specifically, but I resembled that. Kind of. And this is what I’ve looked like for the past week:
I know it looks like my arms were caught up in some industrial equipment, or perhaps burned in a fire. Thankfully, it was neither of those things. But I am nursing two broken wrists.
I’ve been wanting to try snowboarding for awhile and figured now was as good a time as any. And while I quickly learned that the grace I once possessed as a dancer does not at all help when both feet are strapped into a single wood and fiberglass board, it was still fun.
I (pretty much) rocked the bunny hill during my first couple of lessons. But apparently I was no match for Big Foot, the hill on which I caught my backside edge and promptly landed on both wrists. (In my defense, I made it down this hill successfully several times before “the incident.”) My injuries could’ve been much worse, so I am counting my blessings despite my extreme frustration.
I should add that high-school Heather would be totally appalled by thirty-something Heather right now for even attempting snowboarding. In high school, snowboarders were EVIL. The dark side. That’s what my friends and I firmly believed when they got in the way of us much cooler skiers.
So maybe my injuries have helped me come full circle. But then again, I don’t regret trying it at all. And as much as this week has sucked, I don’t want to rule out ever strapping on a snowboard again. But first, I have several weeks of challenging recovery ahead. Already, my family members have been my heroes in helping me manage the day-to-day activities I used to take for granted. Here’s hoping—and praying—for extra patience and perseverance for the long, tough fight back!