I spent a lot of this winter thinking about skiing. This is unusual because I’ve never skied, despite having grown up in the shadow of central Massachusetts’s main ski locales, Mount Wachusett (I hesitate to call it a mountain, because I’ve been repeatedly informed by friends from other states that it doesn’t “count” as one, but that’s its name). What I know about skiing is mostly gleaned from seeing people stop by the Dunkin Donuts I worked at on their way to or from the Mount, and from the kids in my Catholic elementary who used to get bused there after school one day a week in the winter.

I’ve never been skiing, have always been too afraid of snapping both my legs or hitting a tree to try, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it this winter. One of the elaborate Macy’s windows I walk by every day to work was festooned in Ralph Lauren, country club-chic through the holidays, complete with bulky ski boots for the mannequins. So, I thought about the idea of being in a barely-controlled downhill slide as I walked to work every day for two months. 2019 was a lot like skiing.
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