Style News Director Anne Slowey rediscovers sportsmanship and the sweet simplicity of an all-weather, all-function wardrobe
I've always had a love/hate relationship with skiing. Well, maybe detest is too strong a word. Guilt or embarrassment might be better words to describe the actual feelings that come over me when I think of my few encounters with the inclines.
First was the time when I was 12 years old and kept pressing the mother to let me go skiing, not realizing that she was dealing with her very own mother dying. Or the time I broke my leg on an intermediate downward slope, because, being a quick learner, I was a little too reckless. Or the time I was within Gstaad for New Year's Eve with my husband and best friend and got jealous whenever, expert skiers that they were, they left me to fend for myself. Just like a seven-year-old running away from home, I skied off to a neighboring mountain vowing to prevent return.
I had been upset because I'd organized the entire trip, and my husband hadn't even requested after my well-being before swooshing off the chairlift into the void. But at the end of a great day of skiing alone, I realized that what really annoyed me was that I hadn't been a better sport about the fact that my friend as well as partner were better at something than I was.
Even though illustrious episode, I think about the nature of good sportsmanship and competitiveness a lot, particularly while watching my four-year-old daughter, Afton, negotiate her way around the playground. He was a competitive swimmer throughout high school, I know how important it is to have goals, persistence, persistence, and, at times, a killer instinct, and how those skills prove priceless in one's day-to-day life, and so I encourage my daughter to be athletic.
Earlier this winter, on a whim, I took her to St. Moritz for a two-day ski trip. I had taken her skiing once before-or, rather, I'd reserved her a lesson. Upon seeing the chairlift, she insisted to her trainer that they bypass the bunny slope and take the lift up to the beginner slope. She loved everything about the experience, so I saw this weekend getaway like a chance for some much-needed one-on-one time after the birth of her brother annually and a half earlier.
I should mention that I have a friend who works at Moncler outlet,moncler,outlet moncler Grenoble. Within an hour of our arrival at Badrutt's Palace, she arrives in order to usher us into a total immersion of the St. Moritz lifestyle. After a sleigh ride up the mountain, we embark to a quaint restaurant in the woods, wherever we talk about the slopes we are going to ski the next day. It has the feeling of a journey of a lifetime, and though I know my daughter may not remember anything but the race horses, I plan to soak up every minute.
Because of the size of the Switzerland Alps, the buildings seem dwarfed, and given the traditional Engadine architecture, everybody appears couched in Lilliputian landscapes and settings. It isn't long before I see which behind the charm lies a subtle sophistication found only in locations that have a long history of accommodating a certain wealthy set, for whom flavor prevails over opulence. That isn't to say there aren't plenty of lavish furs, however there's a certain restraint and decorum in the way people dress, sort of like the Uk aristocracy, with its penchant for old-fashioned understatement. It's a far cry from locations such as Capri and Rome, where women flash jewelry and overtanned body. Aside from the furs, the most extravagant items I see are wristwatches.
Except, that is, with regard to Moncler Grenoble skiwear-established in the city in 1952-which is everywhere. These are not really the versions I see during Fashion Week, when the brand collaborates with creative designers such as Giambattista Valli and Thom Browne for Moncler Gamme Rouge as well as Moncler Gamme Blue, in which the parka is miraculously reworked into, say, the flower bustier or a cocoon coat. All the skiers I saw wore performance equipment that had been stripped down to its nylon and ripstop necessities, with a no-nonsense visual.
I love a sports uniform, and I'm thrilled to see athletic inspiration within the runways (the trend was also adapted in Alexander Wang's and Coach's fall shows), but I've always thought it looks best in the environment which is why it's designed. After a trip to the Moncler boutique the following morning, Afton and i also are outfitted in lightweight, perfectly tailored leggings and pants, fine-gauge pashm sweaters, and winter jackets for women, all built to bend and stretch. It's our own first dress-alike moment, except it doesn't last long when Afton spies a violescent parka with matching fur trim.
I had forgotten what sort of well-designed piece of athletic gear holds you in, helps you move, and maintains you warm. It reminds me of all the mornings I got up at 5 The. M. to swim for three hours, only to peel off my sweats after college for another two-hour swim. I wore a swimsuit and sweats every day after that, and that informal formality of an athletic uniform is a freedom from daily style choices I hadn't tasted in years. Which, I realize, is what I'm looking to experience here: a profound reunion with my can-do, will-do 12-year-old personal.
The only thing more luxurious than a trip to St. Moritz is a trip to St. Moritz in which you buy what you need when you get there. Fortunately for me, Moncler tailors underlayers-mostly nylon-to function as streetwear, so our weekend has the endless ease of layering up as well as stripping down without ever really needing to change. Which is great, because after our own first night of fresh air, altitude, Aperols (for me), schnitzel, and stroganoff, Constantly even see straight to suggest my daughter take a bath.
The next day I leave Afton with her brand new instructor and hit the slopes, hoping for the best. I am amazed at how much I recall about skiing and quickly advance to intermediate slopes. The only time We fall-really more of a sit-down than a tumble-is when the fog rolls in and I cannot see, or feel, any distinction between the snow under my feet and also the air around me. I follow the bleary outline of my own ski trainer but am vaguely distrustful of where he is going. I repeatedly tell personally, out loud, that he must know where he's going. Finally, the fog thins, and that we take the lift to the top of the mountain.
It's exhilarating to reach the peak and remain there briefly to catch your breath. Like any perfect moment, you know this can't last. As if on cue, the crackle of my instructor's radio stations shatters the silence, and word comes that Afton has been refusing in order to ski for most of the day. They've exhausted their efforts to keep her entertained.
On the way down the mountain, I grapple with my own disappointment at Afton's reluctance to ski. I find myself taking it individually, and then I remember that weekend in Gstaad. No matter how much of a little Viking she actually is, why wouldn't she be upset at being dragged all this way just to be left behind? Though a mother-daughter ski trip might have been just what I needed, it may have been a bit premature for her. But unlike my own loner maneuver in Verbier, when I reach the bottom Afton has the entire ski staff, mostly male, creating snow angels. Despite my efforts to reconnect with my inner sportsman in order to teach my daughter what I think she needs to know, what I learn from the girl is that life is much more fun when I follow her lead.
View the original article here
I've always had a love/hate relationship with skiing. Well, maybe detest is too strong a word. Guilt or embarrassment might be better words to describe the actual feelings that come over me when I think of my few encounters with the inclines.
First was the time when I was 12 years old and kept pressing the mother to let me go skiing, not realizing that she was dealing with her very own mother dying. Or the time I broke my leg on an intermediate downward slope, because, being a quick learner, I was a little too reckless. Or the time I was within Gstaad for New Year's Eve with my husband and best friend and got jealous whenever, expert skiers that they were, they left me to fend for myself. Just like a seven-year-old running away from home, I skied off to a neighboring mountain vowing to prevent return.
I had been upset because I'd organized the entire trip, and my husband hadn't even requested after my well-being before swooshing off the chairlift into the void. But at the end of a great day of skiing alone, I realized that what really annoyed me was that I hadn't been a better sport about the fact that my friend as well as partner were better at something than I was.
Even though illustrious episode, I think about the nature of good sportsmanship and competitiveness a lot, particularly while watching my four-year-old daughter, Afton, negotiate her way around the playground. He was a competitive swimmer throughout high school, I know how important it is to have goals, persistence, persistence, and, at times, a killer instinct, and how those skills prove priceless in one's day-to-day life, and so I encourage my daughter to be athletic.
Earlier this winter, on a whim, I took her to St. Moritz for a two-day ski trip. I had taken her skiing once before-or, rather, I'd reserved her a lesson. Upon seeing the chairlift, she insisted to her trainer that they bypass the bunny slope and take the lift up to the beginner slope. She loved everything about the experience, so I saw this weekend getaway like a chance for some much-needed one-on-one time after the birth of her brother annually and a half earlier.
I should mention that I have a friend who works at Moncler outlet,moncler,outlet moncler Grenoble. Within an hour of our arrival at Badrutt's Palace, she arrives in order to usher us into a total immersion of the St. Moritz lifestyle. After a sleigh ride up the mountain, we embark to a quaint restaurant in the woods, wherever we talk about the slopes we are going to ski the next day. It has the feeling of a journey of a lifetime, and though I know my daughter may not remember anything but the race horses, I plan to soak up every minute.
Because of the size of the Switzerland Alps, the buildings seem dwarfed, and given the traditional Engadine architecture, everybody appears couched in Lilliputian landscapes and settings. It isn't long before I see which behind the charm lies a subtle sophistication found only in locations that have a long history of accommodating a certain wealthy set, for whom flavor prevails over opulence. That isn't to say there aren't plenty of lavish furs, however there's a certain restraint and decorum in the way people dress, sort of like the Uk aristocracy, with its penchant for old-fashioned understatement. It's a far cry from locations such as Capri and Rome, where women flash jewelry and overtanned body. Aside from the furs, the most extravagant items I see are wristwatches.
Except, that is, with regard to Moncler Grenoble skiwear-established in the city in 1952-which is everywhere. These are not really the versions I see during Fashion Week, when the brand collaborates with creative designers such as Giambattista Valli and Thom Browne for Moncler Gamme Rouge as well as Moncler Gamme Blue, in which the parka is miraculously reworked into, say, the flower bustier or a cocoon coat. All the skiers I saw wore performance equipment that had been stripped down to its nylon and ripstop necessities, with a no-nonsense visual.
I love a sports uniform, and I'm thrilled to see athletic inspiration within the runways (the trend was also adapted in Alexander Wang's and Coach's fall shows), but I've always thought it looks best in the environment which is why it's designed. After a trip to the Moncler boutique the following morning, Afton and i also are outfitted in lightweight, perfectly tailored leggings and pants, fine-gauge pashm sweaters, and winter jackets for women, all built to bend and stretch. It's our own first dress-alike moment, except it doesn't last long when Afton spies a violescent parka with matching fur trim.
I had forgotten what sort of well-designed piece of athletic gear holds you in, helps you move, and maintains you warm. It reminds me of all the mornings I got up at 5 The. M. to swim for three hours, only to peel off my sweats after college for another two-hour swim. I wore a swimsuit and sweats every day after that, and that informal formality of an athletic uniform is a freedom from daily style choices I hadn't tasted in years. Which, I realize, is what I'm looking to experience here: a profound reunion with my can-do, will-do 12-year-old personal.
The only thing more luxurious than a trip to St. Moritz is a trip to St. Moritz in which you buy what you need when you get there. Fortunately for me, Moncler tailors underlayers-mostly nylon-to function as streetwear, so our weekend has the endless ease of layering up as well as stripping down without ever really needing to change. Which is great, because after our own first night of fresh air, altitude, Aperols (for me), schnitzel, and stroganoff, Constantly even see straight to suggest my daughter take a bath.
The next day I leave Afton with her brand new instructor and hit the slopes, hoping for the best. I am amazed at how much I recall about skiing and quickly advance to intermediate slopes. The only time We fall-really more of a sit-down than a tumble-is when the fog rolls in and I cannot see, or feel, any distinction between the snow under my feet and also the air around me. I follow the bleary outline of my own ski trainer but am vaguely distrustful of where he is going. I repeatedly tell personally, out loud, that he must know where he's going. Finally, the fog thins, and that we take the lift to the top of the mountain.
It's exhilarating to reach the peak and remain there briefly to catch your breath. Like any perfect moment, you know this can't last. As if on cue, the crackle of my instructor's radio stations shatters the silence, and word comes that Afton has been refusing in order to ski for most of the day. They've exhausted their efforts to keep her entertained.
On the way down the mountain, I grapple with my own disappointment at Afton's reluctance to ski. I find myself taking it individually, and then I remember that weekend in Gstaad. No matter how much of a little Viking she actually is, why wouldn't she be upset at being dragged all this way just to be left behind? Though a mother-daughter ski trip might have been just what I needed, it may have been a bit premature for her. But unlike my own loner maneuver in Verbier, when I reach the bottom Afton has the entire ski staff, mostly male, creating snow angels. Despite my efforts to reconnect with my inner sportsman in order to teach my daughter what I think she needs to know, what I learn from the girl is that life is much more fun when I follow her lead.
View the original article here
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