Shtepping Around With Hoobert

Immediately after breakfast we repaired to the stylish little shop in the ski lodge to make additions to our wardrobes. I was prepared to spend $50, $60, even as much as $100, to make us look In with the In crowd. After all of the children had been outfitted in apr�s-ski boots, the salesgirl turned to me. "And now, what about you, sir?"

I looked down at my galoshes. "What's wrong with these?" I said.

She looked haughty and said nothing.

"Form follows function," I blurted. "They're warm, easy to put on. They keep out water. They're easy to buckle...."

"They're just not worn, sir," she said.

"They are by me," I said.

But on the walk back to our lodgings I thought I noticed that cars slowed as they passed us, and once I could have sworn I heard a man's voice saying, "Hey, Marge, get a load of this. There's a guy with galoshes!"

At that moment I had one of those flashes of anger that have kept me staggeringly in debt for years. "Let's go back, kids," I said, and led them on the double to the shop. I told the salesgirl that I wanted complete ski outfits for four, "everything that it takes to keep from getting us stared at." We spent $500. Back in our lodgings, I looked for the first time at the individual prices. My own stretch pants were marked $50, which is more than I have ever paid for a pair of trousers in my life. A few discreet questions turned up the fact that everything in the ski shop was flamboyantly expensive. Thus the first day was not a total loss, for from it I was able to formulate Olsen's law of purchase, to wit: the cost of sports clothes is inversely proportional to the square of the distance from the action, or, in lay terms, you should buy your ski pants in Tristan da Cunha and your skin-diving gear in Moose Jaw, Sask. Anyone who buys ski equipment at a ski lodge is either nuts, a millionaire or me.

But, oh, what splendor! as we walked from our chalet to the inn for dinner that night, having shot a whole day in fitting and purchasing. Bespangled with new parkas and chic stretch pants and handsome knee-length apr�s-ski boots and headbands and goggles firmly in place, with each child utilizing his rented ski poles, we strode up the road in single file, looking like a page out of Vogue or Elle. Cars slowed again, but this time in admiration.

SECOND DAY: We awoke rarin' to go, and I addressed myself to the problem of lacing up four pairs of ski boots (which is the equivalent of eight pairs of ordinary boots, since each ski boot has inner and outer laces). It took the better part of an hour to get all the boots tightly laced, but it was worth it. None of us had ever experienced the fun of walking around in ski boots before; with their tight ankle supports, they gave us a power-mad feeling. We swaggered about the room adopting crazy poses, leaning forward on our tiptoes, sitting back on our haunches, with all the strain being absorbed by the boot. We dipped backward and forward and sideways, defying gravity, and we might have stayed home all morning having fun, but the kids insisted that I stop and dragged me away.