“What if we took a ski holiday to Tahoe?!”  This enthusiastic question was posed to me a few weeks ago.

“That sounds like so much fun.  Let me look at schedules and get back to you,” is what I should have said.  Instead, I let out a blood curling “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” before I could stop myself.  Then I walked to the freezer and took out a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie, and one of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.  Fear makes me hungry.

Falling clumsily over my legs, while my raw skin peels off my cheeks, and I am hospitalized for broken bones and hypothermia — not my idea of fun.  Neither is spending loads of money to find out I understand the locals perfectly, and will never get to flash my passport.

In all fairness, my only frame of reference for Lake Tahoe is as the site of Fredo Corleone’s murder by his loving brother.  My ignorance is further reinforced, when I realize I will have to Google “Tahoe which state.”

An hour later, fueled heavily by ice cream, I try to explore a positive attitude towards the possibility.  Ski slopes always look glamorous on the cover of Hello!  Blonde new-mama princess gliding down, with trim dark and handsome investment banker husband right behind.  The nanny gazes over them from the chateau, while setting up a table of welcoming drinks.  The genetically gifted future king naps in his stroller.  Beauty, wealth, perfect highlights – this is skiing.

Since I can’t relate, sitting in my baggy sweatpants and glycolic acid mask, I usually skip to the pages featuring my kin: B-listers whose athletic prowess starts and ends with tanning.  Yes, there are a fair number of muffin tops, but they are somewhat obscured by the large pretty umbrella drinks.  Shiny brown skin that temporarily hides imperfections.  Teeth that seem dazzling white as a result.  Who cares if the claim to fame came from a one-time photo on the arms of a Real Madrid footballer?

I turn to watch the snow fall delicately over my front steps.  The edge of my shovel peeks at me from the corner.  I wrap my fingers tightly around my hot mug of Earl Grey.  One other thing about the magazine beach bums – they look very warm.