After weeks of needling, harassing, asking, pleading, and sometimes even downright begging (some people have no shame, I tell you), J finally convinced me to go skiing with him. To be fair, this wasn’t my first trip down the slopes. Oh no, I’ve tried skiing before, and I say “tried” with as much love as I can muster. I have been skiing on three separate occasions (other than today) and each of them ended in less than stellar conditions.
Ski Trip #1: I was in high school, and went on a ski trip with other students in the Science Club. Don’t ask me what skiing has to do with science, because I’m pretty sure it had more to do with anatomy this trip. I ended up falling off the ski lift chair while trying to get on it (only to be smacked in the back of the head with it…adding insult to injury, to be sure) and then another friend/classmate ended up breaking his collarbone during a ski run. It ended with a trip to the local ER to get him sorted, and we all learned a valuable lesson that day…that Mrs. C could drive like a bat out of hell when required. Seriously…don’t cross that woman.
Ski Trip #2: After the disastrous ski trip #1, I waited a few years before being cajoled into going again. This time, I was in college, and a group of people in my dorm decided that they wanted to go skiing for the weekend. Sure! I mean…I’m in college, I can do anything, right? HA! This time was even worse than the first. We arrived at the slopes in the evening, after dropping our luggage at the cabin we rented for the weekend. I was clearly the novice skier in the group, so I wanted to stick to the bunny slopes. Somehow, I wound up on a much more difficult run (unbeknownst to me at the time), and in an effort to stop myself from careening off the mountain (seriously, this was like an Olympic run here, folks…and I was the epitome of “in over my head!”) I threw myself on the ground and prayed for saving. Which, eventually happened, in the form of a snowmobile, after I was incapable of getting up due to a concussion. Yep, it was a “Yardsale” (a word I learned today, which pretty much means “lose your shit”), and I was definitely in the dollar bin. I was out the rest of the weekend, which was fine by me, because I spent the rest of it worshipping the porcelain God with concussion induced vomit. I rapidly learned that the snow was a harsh Mistress, and we’re not talking about “50 Shades of Grey” love here.
Ski Trip #3: Fast forward a few years. Ok, SEVERAL years. I’m now married, living in Europe, and J gets this awesome idea of how FABULOUS it’ll be to go skiing in the Swiss Alps! Am “opportunity of a lifetime” he says. “It’ll be amazing!” he says. Lies…all lies. But, this time, I’m going to do it right. I was going to get lessons, stick diligently to the bunny slopes, and watch my ass for every other skier out there. Talk about a lesson in humility. Two-year-olds were skiing faster (and better) than I, and the lessons were less than helpful. I managed to, not only once, but TWICE, run into the ONLY tree on the bunny slopes, and was laughed out by every Swiss/German/Spanish/French/Portuguese/America/insert nationality here on the slopes. Humiliating, I tell you. That was it, I was finished, as far as I was concerned skiing could go the way of the dinosaurs.
Until today. J talked me into it, and I have to say, it was a COMPLETELY different experience! I didn’t fall once, no one was injured (ok, that’s not true, after lunch I did notice that a girl was being prepped for an ambulance ride with a broken leg), and I managed to ski all of the blue runs at the slopes! I mean, I’m not ready for the Olympics or anything, but at least I walked away from it! After all my previous experiences, I had expected to absolutely hate it, but wound up having a fantastic time! I told J that I would definitely be willing to go again, so who knows where this will lead! I will say, I’m just really glad I’m no longer terrified of skiing! Who knows, maybe I’ll turn into a Snow Bunny yet!