I enjoy life’s little absurdities. In fact, I revel in them. Here are a few absurdities I’ve noted of late:

            —A pogo stick in a kitchen

            —Twinkies in a vintage cookie jar

            —Getting a bikini wax to AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill”

            —At the Patagonia Outlet, a box of women’s pants labeled, “Odd Bottoms”

            —Happy Feet, Charlotte’s Web, and Rocky Balboa advertised for the “Mommy Show” at Carmike Cinemas

            —A 34-year-old woman learning to ski

The last absurdity, “a 34-year-old woman learning to ski” refers, of course, to me.

            Since moving to Montana, I’ve tried to involve myself in outdoor activities. Last summer, I tried camping and found myself a dirty, miserable old sod who wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a toilet that flushed. This winter, I decided I should try skiing. A ski slope is located near our town, and I had visions of myself carving gentle ‘s’ curves into a snowy hill by day and drinking hot toddies by a roaring fire by night. So when my boyfriend Jacek suggested a skiing trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I jumped at the opportunity.

            I should have heeded the warning signs sent my way. The day before our departure, Jacek took me to our local ski slope for a quick lesson. The slope was closed due to extreme (-10 degrees) cold. Though I was a little disappointed, on the drive home I quickly planned out the rest of my day which involved me on the couch with a blanket and a book.

            The next day at -13 degrees, my car’s engine turned over with much distress and the brakes were so stiff with cold that I had to use both feet on the brake pedal to stop the car. On the way to Jackson Hole, I cranked the defroster to thaw ice on the INSIDE not outside of the car’s windows. That night in Jackson Hole, the lowest temperature was -24 degrees.

            But I wasn’t too concerned about the cold. I had my mother’s gorgeous wool sweaters and a toasty boyfriend ready for a little cuddling action. Jacek and I knew we’d be sharing a room with a colleague and his daughter in order to get the best hotel rates, but we’d hoped for a suite-type situation with separate bedrooms.

            When we arrived at the hotel with its tiny cabins, my hopes for a romantic weekend soared high. We’d never spent a weekend together, and we were looking forward to some snuggly canoodling away from our pets, our work, our responsibilities. When I opened the door to our cabin, Jacek cocked an eyebrow when I asked him, “Would you like to be on top or bottom?”

            And then came the laughter. We were looking at queen-sized bunk beds.

            And so went away our hopes for a semi-private weekend of snuggly, cuddly, canoodle-dom.

            The next morning we ventured forth in -18 degree weather to ski at Jackson Hole’s Teton Village. I had purchased a day-long beginner’s lesson for adults the previous day and had picked up equipment: skis, boots, and poles. We parked the car, laden with equipment, in a distant parking lot and suited up. Another warning sign: it took me five minutes to put the stupid ski boots on. That hassle followed by a frigid, uncomfortable walk with million-pound skis on my shoulder and hard plastic digging into my shins should have made me turn back, but I forged ahead.

            On the bunny slope, my fellow lesson-mates and I learned how to put on our skis, grab the tow line, and form a wedge with our skis to stop ourselves from plummeting down the hard, icy hill. At lunch time, our instructor told us to ski to the cafeteria, a short jaunt that included a small but very steep and icy hill. When the instructor bit it on that hill (the rest of us fell too), I should have bailed, but I didn’t.

            After discovering that picking myself up with skis on is nearly impossible on a solid sheet of ice, I bunged the skis over my shoulder and walked to the cafeteria, even though my calves and shins were screaming with pain in those stupid plastic boots.

            I decided then and there that the only time it is acceptable for shoes to hurt is when they are labeled either Manolo Blahnik or Prada.

            After lunch, the instructor decided we were ready to learn how to get on and off the chair lift. While I managed that particular task well enough, I was very concerned about how high up we were climbing. At the top of the icy hill (the high temperature that day was 10 degrees), the instructor told us to push off and keep our skis in a wedge. I stuck my poles in the ground, pushed forward for about three seconds, fell down, and spent five minutes trying to get up.

            And just like a shampoo bottle’s directions read: ‘lather, rinse, repeat,’ I shoved off, fell down, got up; shoved off, fell down, got up. I spent more time trying to get up off the ice than I did on my actual skis. I didn’t have the physical strength to jam my poles into the icy snow to haul myself up, so I removed one ski and was able to stand with my free foot. Then I spent another five minutes trying to get that ski back on while other skiers flew past me, poles tucked neatly under their arms.

            After a half hour of sliding, falling, and getting up, I started to cry. I had paid $100 to fall on the ice in the freezing cold. It wasn’t fun. In fact, I’ve had more pleasure getting a Brazilian bikini wax. So I took off my skis, threw them over my shoulder and hobbled down the hill. Luckily, Jacek skied by and grabbed my skis so that I only had to contend with getting down the hill in those awful boots.

            As I turned in my gear at the rental office, I looked down at my feet and realized I’d have to walk to the car in my socks. I put on my sunglasses, cried a little more, and shuffled a quarter of a mile or so to the car. After putting on a fresh pair of socks and my tennis shoes, I turned from the car, and that’s when I saw it: Snake River Lodge and . . . . Spa. I hurried over and made a massage appointment for the next day. And for the first time that day, I smiled.

            The next day while others careened down the mountain in sub-zero weather, I baked in a sauna, relaxed on a massage table, and soaked in a hot tub. The ladies’ lounge at the spa afforded me a luxurious seat next to a gently popping fire that illuminated the pages of the book I was reading.

            And as I sat there enjoying my quiet moment with a book and a beautiful fire, I decided that Montana, quite absurdly, is best enjoyed indoors.