My inner sheep-dog is troubled.
By troubled I mean unsettled, discombobulated and partaking of a personal worry-fest.
Am I the only human to possess an inner sheep-dog? Surely not.
Sheep dog - the keen dog that rounds up its little flock, coaxes it into a safe pen, then guards it fiercely. 'Over protective' possibly springs to mind but wouldn't be strictly accurate - this sheep-dog is happy to let it's lambs stray, but worries if they wander too far, or into activities that the sheep-dog may not consider 100% safe. I suspect most mothers are sheep-dogs.
Or do you need to be both mother and in possession of an over-active imagination?
Currently, this sheep-dog's concern is that snow, plus slopes, plus planks attached to feet, equals potential hazard. Or many, many, many potential hazards. Skiing like sailing has been spoilt for me by having children. Instinct tells me that I have a duty to get to the end of the day without breaking anything or drowning. After all I am 'Mummy' and mummy is needed to wash, feed and read to her flock, before tucking them up in bed and wishing that tomorrow wasn't another day of danger in the snow, or on the water. Pathetic? Possibly. Innate? Definitely.
Wary, my inner sheep-dog struggles to relax into this game of skiing. She sees danger over the edge of every piste. Round each corner. With the fast approaching scrunch of every snowboarder. And on all button drags and chair lifts. After all a lamb might fall off. Or over. Or down. Or be squashed by an out of control adolescent with both feet strapped onto one plank. Lashings of mint sauce may be required.
Part of the problem is the clarity of the sheep-dog's visions of calamity. They wake me with a jolt, just as I am sinking into sleep. But they aren't quite hallucinations ... despite the above, I'm not going mad. Not yet.
So what is the cure? Indeed, is there a cure? Are you shouting "Therapy!" at this blog? Or "More alcohol!" Or are you quietly agreeing, as you too have an inner sheep-dog?
For now - I ski (very slowly ... apparently - as I am told again and again, with that resigned, softly monotonous-verging-on-irritated tone of voice. But better the steady, safe tortoise than the reckless hare, I say ... to myself); I smile; I laugh; I joke about falling over (me ... many times); I admire the scenery; I sup the vin chaud; I keep my worries to myself; and I stroke my inner-sheep-dog, quietly telling her it will be over soon and we'll all be safely back at home.
Will I ski again? - of course, no sheep-dog is ever going to let her flock go on holiday alone!
By troubled I mean unsettled, discombobulated and partaking of a personal worry-fest.
Am I the only human to possess an inner sheep-dog? Surely not.
Sheep dog - the keen dog that rounds up its little flock, coaxes it into a safe pen, then guards it fiercely. 'Over protective' possibly springs to mind but wouldn't be strictly accurate - this sheep-dog is happy to let it's lambs stray, but worries if they wander too far, or into activities that the sheep-dog may not consider 100% safe. I suspect most mothers are sheep-dogs.
Or do you need to be both mother and in possession of an over-active imagination?
Currently, this sheep-dog's concern is that snow, plus slopes, plus planks attached to feet, equals potential hazard. Or many, many, many potential hazards. Skiing like sailing has been spoilt for me by having children. Instinct tells me that I have a duty to get to the end of the day without breaking anything or drowning. After all I am 'Mummy' and mummy is needed to wash, feed and read to her flock, before tucking them up in bed and wishing that tomorrow wasn't another day of danger in the snow, or on the water. Pathetic? Possibly. Innate? Definitely.
Wary, my inner sheep-dog struggles to relax into this game of skiing. She sees danger over the edge of every piste. Round each corner. With the fast approaching scrunch of every snowboarder. And on all button drags and chair lifts. After all a lamb might fall off. Or over. Or down. Or be squashed by an out of control adolescent with both feet strapped onto one plank. Lashings of mint sauce may be required.
Part of the problem is the clarity of the sheep-dog's visions of calamity. They wake me with a jolt, just as I am sinking into sleep. But they aren't quite hallucinations ... despite the above, I'm not going mad. Not yet.
So what is the cure? Indeed, is there a cure? Are you shouting "Therapy!" at this blog? Or "More alcohol!" Or are you quietly agreeing, as you too have an inner sheep-dog?
For now - I ski (very slowly ... apparently - as I am told again and again, with that resigned, softly monotonous-verging-on-irritated tone of voice. But better the steady, safe tortoise than the reckless hare, I say ... to myself); I smile; I laugh; I joke about falling over (me ... many times); I admire the scenery; I sup the vin chaud; I keep my worries to myself; and I stroke my inner-sheep-dog, quietly telling her it will be over soon and we'll all be safely back at home.
Will I ski again? - of course, no sheep-dog is ever going to let her flock go on holiday alone!
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