It’s sometime around now that’s rumoured to be the most depressing day of the year; some mathematical formula to do with length of time since Christmas, poor weather and levels of debt after festive spending. Rather than feel sad, I thought I’d write a post to put a smile on my face, as well as yours. Usually, I’m looking forward to heading off on a girls’ winter holiday, but not this season (I’m training for a trip to Everest Base Camp). But it got me reminiscing about holidays past, and so you know you’re away with fortysomething women when….
- Your medicine bag is bigger than your make-up bag.
- You’re in bed for 10.30pm rather than 2.30am.
- You can appreciate the chalet wine at dinner.
- Complaints centre around husbands/ partners rather than the cute guy in the lift queue who’s ignored you after snogging him last night!
- You feel sick on the gondola coz of the dodgy snails you ate rather than the 10 Jägerbombs you chugged down every night when in your twenties.
- The chairlift chat is about the kids, bunions killing in your boots, how much fitter you were back in the day and how you used to be able to nail that trick.
- You eat at the best restaurant in town, clutching a cocktail, rather than stuffing your face with a burger before consuming half your weight in shots.
When riding the chairlift, you all look longingly at the- deckchairs catching the warm, afternoon sunshine.
- You sit in the hot tub before diner rather than at 2am.
- Après consists of a few pre-diner drinks rather than dancing ‘til dawn in your skiwear
That is, unless……you’re lucky enough to have friends who are happy to relive their youth, temporarily forgetting adult responsibilities, throwing caution to the wind. With only a few days away, you need to ride hard, drink plenty and pack in as much as possible. Last year, I was introduced to the recently opened La Folie Douce in Avoriaz where we drank and danced on the vertiginous tables, singing along to each tune.
It was as if the clocks of time had rewound. But instead of tottering out of a club with my ears ringing, hailing a taxi, I stomped across the snow, strapped into my board and, feeling slightly sozzled, rode to the gondola. With the disappearing warmth of the sun’s rays at my back and the echoes of the last track fading, my blonde-haired pal and I grinned at each other. Those types of friends are priceless, and it’s one of the joys of a girls’ ski holiday; you can play out, have fun and forget being an adult, no matter how old you are.
Cheers!
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Kate.
