Why I Fear The Slopes

I have a confession to make: I didn't learn how to ski until I was 14.

This wouldn't seem odd at all until you realize that I live in Vermont......and skiing is basically the only reason we get tourists in the winter.

I mean, sure I'd been on skis before. At the age of 7, I was scooting around my very flat backyard on some flimsy bright red skis, trying to not cross them and die. But I had never been to an actual mountain.

It was about three or so days after Christmas and my uncle and aunt decided they were going to check out the powder. My aunt found out that I in fact did not know how to ski. Well that was apparently a crime.

"You should really go! It'll be great!"

I, of course, had no intentions of allowing my feet to be strapped to unreliable pieces of metal/plastic/wood/whatever the hell skis are made out of. But I have a really hard time saying no to people without coming across as rude. So I tried to ease out of it like..."Oh...I don't know...I mean....my nose is running.....and I"m kinda tired...."

Of course, there's no saying 'no' to my aunt. If you try to get out of doing something she suggests, she begins with the spiel of "You never know until you try!" or "I think it really would be a good thing for you...."

As it happens on most occasions when I try to politely and carefully extract myself from some brand new life-changing experience she tries to foist upon me, my aunt tried a new tactic. She brought it up loudly and brightly in front of my mother.

My mother, who is probably where I inherited the whole guilt complex about seeming rude for refusing to do something, did what mothers do when there's a chance to do something "exciting": She answered for me.

"Oh of course she'd love to go!" And then she turned to me, gave me a very serious Mom-face and informed me that I really should in fact go. Because apparently winter sports are good for me. The uncoordinated kid.

So that was how I found myself in the car heading off to some mountain with my aunt and uncle excitedly talking about how much fun it was going to be. And how I really needed to be more active and this was perfect.

I was trundled off into a beginner's class, where I nervously tried to avoid letting anyone know that I was in fact from Vermont. They would judge me surely for going 14 years without having learned how to ski. Other than a sad mishap, in which I neatly avoided a father and son from Connecticut and smacked into the instructor instead, the whole learning experience went all right. While I wasn't a very good skier, I could at least navigate the small slope they'd taken us on.

When I reconvened with my uncle and aunt, I told them about the success. After lunch, my aunt went off and my uncle insisted he'd take me up on another hill. We headed out....only he started walking in the wrong direction. I asked him where we were going.

"I'm taking you on a real hill." *looks determined*

"A.....real...hill?" O_O;

He pointed at this snow covered monstrosity and I had an instant case of cottonmouth. "But..um....the instructor suggested...the bunny slope..."

"Bunny hill? Pfff. You can do better than that."

The thing is.....when you get on the bigger hills, there's no truck to ride in or tow you up it. There's the actual lifts.

I managed to fall off of it when we got to the top, resulting in my uncle having to drag me out of the way. I took that as a bad omen but he was gung ho about the entire thing. By god, his niece was going to ski like a champ by the end of the afternoon.

We were perched at the edge of the slope and I was staring down, wide-eyed, as the trail rounded a corner and people whizzed past. There was no way in hell I was getting down there.

"Um...I think this was a bad idea."

"No it's not. C'mon. Let's go."

And so I tried. I went at an angle but because of the slope, I was moving much faster than I had previously. In sheer panic, my mind went blank and I managed to forget everything I'd just learned a couple of hours before. I was headed straight for trees and I began flailing trying to stop even as my uncle was calling out behind me "Turn! Turn!" The skis crossed and I fell painfully on the ground, nearly taking out someone who was trying to go by.

My uncle swooped over and tried to tell me again how to ski. That wasn't going to help though. I clung to the snow with gloved fingers, convinced I was going to fall off the world.

"I just want to go home." >_<

"The only way to do that is down this hill." >_< I was trapped. there was no other way down.....and I hated my life and everyone in it.

My uncle hauled me up and rambled at me about keeping my knees bent and shifting and braking and etc. It all sounded like blahblahblahrammarammablaghlatidah.

I tried to focus on making it down. But going in the opposite direction I was headed straight for trees again, only mixed with brambles and other unpleasant looking plant life. Fear struck my heart again and I did the only thing I could think of: I made myself fall.

Here was a solution. I could zigzag my way down and stop myself by plopping into the snow. Perfect. By the fifteenth time I'd done this, my uncle was fed up with me.

"Why can't you try skiing down? You just need to turn! It's going to be dark by the time we get down!"

I'd had enough as well. "You wanted me to ski down......I'M GETTING DOWN THE GODDAMN MOUNTAIN!" only by that time I'd burst into tears out of sheer frustration and terror, so it came out more like "YOU WANNA ME-----YYY TAH SKIIIII DOWWW I'M GERRRTING DOWWWW THA G-G-G-G-G-ODDAAM-M-M-MNNN MOUUUUUUUUUU---NTAAINN!!!!!!!"

My uncle threw up his hands and let me flop my way down the mountain like a dead fish. I was so happy to reach the bottom I nearly kissed the ground. But that would have required hitting the earth again and then clambering back up and I knew my knees and sides couldn't take much more of that.

And my uncle and aunt NEVER BROUGHT UP SKIING AGAIN.

Whether this is because it was too much of a hassle....or because they felt bad the next day when I woke up in a world of hurt and with the mother of all sinus infections the world may never know.

All I do know is this: I fear the mountain and with good reason.