January 15. Sunday Night.

Hi Journey.

I'm sometimes a poor loser but it's usually just when I know I should have won.

That's what happened on Friday. Called up Eddie, thought he might be up for a little sledding. Little did I know it'd turn into a race.

Sometimes I'm just too competitive for my own good. Eddie met me out at Trailblazer Park just after six on Friday. I'd had time to grab my warmest hiking boots, throw on a pair of sweats and a pair of slicks, and pull on my warmest Ragg wool mitts. It was full dusk by the time I got there, but there's s big slide out there that sits atop an even bigger hill right next to the parking lot. On snow days the city fires up the huge floodlights mounted next to the slide. They wash over the entire hill.

Eddie showed up with two oversized-saucer sleds and a toboggan he'd picked up from his mom's garage.

I should have picked the toboggan. I knew in my gut that's the ride Eddie wanted me to choose. I think he had visions of me cinched up tight against his back as we rocketed down the hill. Instead, I chose the saucers. Plus, I salted his when by betting him I'd beat him to the bottom of the hill best three out of five.

My behind hasn't been on a saucer in years. Eddie didn't just win; he slaughtered me on that hill. I, who always pride myself on my balance during my running, and how I nearly never fall! Well, Journey, when I am flat on my butt I'm afraid it's a completely different story. I just couldn't stop spinning, and every time I twirled around I'd wipe out. Eddie just stuck out both his arms like two of the outriggers on one of Casey's canoes and constantly adjusted his drift. He didn't spin about once.

It was 70 yards from the top of the hill to the little pine tree we designated as the finish line. The closest I ever came to him was ten yards, and Journey I swear I was usually at least 30 behind him.

I pouted a solid ten minutes—a clear violation of Carmen's pout rule. My big sister's pout guideline was:

A. 60 seconds for any slight from a guy is OK.
B. 3 minutes if the guy was a real jerk.
C. 5 minutes or more—get over it girl!

Note to self: Carmen may be a bit too low maintenance, J. Ten minutes seemed about right to me.

Page 2.