The One Where Emzy Made French Bread

As if freshman year of high school isn't painfully awkward enough already.

If you know Emzy today, you would probably never believe what I am about to tell you. She started learning French in the seventh grade and by high school was well on her way to being a fluent speaker. By the end of her junior year she had developed quite a talent for the language, but if you ask her she'll never admit. Just like she will never let on that she was a very adept flutist at one point in life.

But I digress.

As a freshman, Emzy was already in French II. Which is cool from a proud little sister's perspective. But from where she sat, she was the only freshman in a class full of sophomores, juniors, and seniors. And when it came time for a group project, I think she was equal parts excited and terrified. You see, Emzy is one of those people who is happiest breezing through life unnoticed by others. She prefers to go about her business without drawing attention to herself. And she is still embarrassed if my voice and laughter get a little on the loud side in public.

The class project was to work together to make a traditional French meal, share it with the class, and talk about it in class. In French, obviously. I don't really know what the other kids in her group made, but Emzy was tasked with making French bread. She was standing with her group in front of the class, having memorized her lines and waiting her turn to speak.

It is this point in the story when I wish I had also been a student in the class. The presentation was going along smoothly. The other students were occasionally stumbling over their words, I'm sure. And all of a sudden it starts raining French bread. Because Emzy was standing there, nervous as hell, and next thing she knows, she's on the floor and there are pieces of bread EVERYWHERE.

Like I said....as if freshman year isn't awkward enough already.

The One Where Emzy "Went Skiing"

Way back in the day, we lived in Alaska. Right near Fairbanks, to be exact. Beautiful summers and amazing winters. Perfect for skiing. Well, perfect for skiing for everyone EXCEPT dear old (emphasis on the old) Emzy.

See, I joined the cross country ski club in the fourth grade. Saved my money to buy my very own set of skis that I lugged on the school bus every Tuesday and Thursday. Started downhill skiing with Dad in the fifth grade. That ended badly in the spring of sixth grade with an incident that involved and idiot girl and a tree. But that's another story for my own blog, not for the one devoted solely to the ridiculosity of Emzy's life.

Somehow we managed to talk Emzy into giving cross country skiing the old college try. But since we only had one set of teenage sized skis, I waited at the lodge while she and Dad took off for a quick spin on the "warm up loop" of Birch Ski Hill. And, mind you, the warm up loop begins with a slight downhill followed by some pretty level ground. I would know. I skied it several times each week.

I watched as the two of them headed off to the opening of the warm up loop and then went inside the lodge to sit and wait. The place was deserted. I was the only one there. It wasn't your typical ski lodge with a coffee bar and pro shop. Just a log cabin with benches and a bar where the ski moms would serve cookies and home made hot chocolate. I distinctly remember the emptiness of the lodge because I had a chocolate power bar in the front pocket of my pullover pink and black speckled ski jacket. (Don't judge.) I pulled the power bar out of the pocket not long after they left for the loop and took a bite. Rather, I tried to take a bite. It was already frozen solid. And I remember being glad that there was nobody else around to see me being awkwardly hungry.

I wrapped the power bar back up, put it back in the pocket, and went to sit on the bench outside. And as I looked across the open field (do you call it a field when it's covered in snow?) I saw Emzy walking back, carrying the skis. When she made it back to me she said, "I knew I was going to fall! And you guys told me there were no hills. And that was steep at the very beginning!" She gave me the skis and sat down to wait while Dad and I went about our business on the hill.

When I caught back up to Dad, he proceeded to tell me what had actually transpired. As he tried to explain to her how to go slowly downhill by pointing the toes of the skis together, she started off and went about four feet before stopping and basically laying down in the snow. Or, falling, as she swore up and down that she did.

I realize that this is not one of the funniest stories of all time, but this was the beginning of the Epic Falls of Emzy. Even though she brought this one on herself. She had it so set in her mind that she was going to fall, she made sure she did. Oh, Emzy. She never skied again. And still swears to this day that this "fall" dented her shin. That's right. DENTED her SHIN.