I have a confession to make. In the last 25 years I have called this fair state “home,” I have never had a powder day.

Sure, there has been plenty of powder skiing. But I’ve never told the big “white lie.” You know, muffle the voice, call the boss, make up an excuse about being sick and ditch work to ski powder.

Blame it on residual Catholic guilt. But I have a hard time lying due to the fact that I can’t help but feel like someone, somewhere knows.

Which isn’t to say I’m not filled with jealousy (yet another mortal sin) when my neighbor brushes the snow off his car, loads up the skis and buzzes off to the hill for his 110th powder day of the year while I trudge through the snowdrifts en route to another exciting day at the office.

Don’t get me wrong – I an eternally grateful for my job (and it sure beats cleaning fish guts for a living.) And it’s not that I’m not happy for those who get to ski while I toil in the trenches (again, better than cleaning up crime scenes.) It’s just that there’s only so much of the “float and gloat” us working stiffs can take.

How many times can you blankly nod and feign interest while someone regales you in tales of how “sick,” deep,” “rad” or “awesome” it was or how tired someone’s legs are from “skiing pow all day” before you take their ski poles and beat them senseless?

Yes, I know these people either have night jobs, are independently wealthy or have made a conscious choice to eat ramen and live in a closet with their dog all winter in order to enable such activity. But for those of us with “real jobs” (again, so beats selling organs), hearing about escapades in the blower pow really just, well, blows.

Which is why Monday before last (you know, the one your conspicuously absent coworkers with the raccoon tans keep referring to as “Mad Monday”) I decided to quit being a victim of others’ tales of deep snow conquests. I took a heretofore unprecedented powder day.

I guess you could say it was the perfect storm cycle: three days of foot-plus dumps and sub-20 temperatures culminating in super-hero snow so light and fluffy you thought you’d died and gone to Utah (minus the green Jell-O and sister wives).

I justified the decision as a belated birthday gift to myself, as my actual birthday a week earlier failed to deliver any precipitation. Plus, I owed it to my coworkers, who surely would rather have a happy but late and tired bosslady than a grumbling, bitter, she-curmudgeon.

And with apologies to the AFLAC ladies, who I inadvertently blew off, dare I say I felt not one iota of guilt. See, it’s hard to feel guilty when you’re surrounded by partners in crime, all engaged in the same self-indulgent, slacker behavior and wearing the same, silly, powder-eating grin (which may or may not be chemically enhanced.)

“I feel naturally stoned,” divulged one chair partner, a lawyer with more days under his belt than most full-time ski bums.

Then there’s people like “Dr. Cheeba” (not his real name), who, at almost 60, is still filled with giddy delight every chance he gets to ski powder.
In fact, I would say everyone that day – with the exception of the poor guy under the quad who spent hours searching for his ski – was having a grand old time. We were all united in our lifelong quest not to ride an office chair, but to ride a chair lift – if only for one brief, glorious day (oops, sorry, was that gloating?)

There was no talk of work, chores, responsibilities or any of that so-called real life stuff. Just an occasional whoop or holler from the trees. And the most thinking we had to do was making sure to skip a chair and deciding what run to do next.

Maybe part of the pure joy of a powder day comes from not doing what you’re supposed to do. Even if no one really gives a rat’s rear (and maybe is a little relieved) that you’re not there to answer the phone. There’s something undeniably good about being “bad.” Especially for some of us of a certain age who see rebellion as a shot of Bailey’s in our Ensure or passing on a double yellow in the minivan.  

And maybe part of the attraction comes from knowing that if, for whatever reason, this should be the last powder day ever, you were there. Because, you never know when a massive space rock will come hurtling through the Earth’s atmosphere and land in your yard.

Or maybe it will be more inconspicuous. Like the day last week, while cramming in a quick sandwich, the phone rang and I decided not to pick it up. Which is too bad, because it was a “friendly” message from City Market telling me that the organic baby spinach I was about to ingest has been recalled due to potential E. coli. The woman, in a strangely perky voice, instructed me not to eat it and to throw it away immediately. And if I should suffer any nausea, vomiting or hemorrhagic diarrhea, I should seek medical attention. She then thanked me for being a loyal City Market customer (or at least a former one) and hung up.

Of course, by that point, the few seemingly innocent leaves of spinach were well on their journey through my digestive tract. I briefly considered a finger down the throat, but not even the threat of imminent death or a string bikini could force me to undertake that most traumatic of bodily functions.

So instead, I did what anyone would do. I Googled it, assumed the worst, and called my loved ones to tell them the sad news. Then, I sat back and waited for the first burp, gurgle or sign of internal distress to surface.  

The good news is, six days into a potential weeklong incubation period, all systems appear to be operating normally. And I now have learned that no matter how ravenous you are, you should always answer the phone in the middle of a meal in case it is someone calling to tell you that the food you are about to eat may or may not be contaminated with excrement.

And more importantly, I’ve learned that when it comes to powder days, or sandwiches, make sure you get out and enjoy them, because you just never know when it will be your last.

– Missy Votel