I'm Alive!!!!!!!!

Yes, I have returned from my ski trip with all my parts intact. As it turns out, at least according to my friend L, I am a "natural" at the downhill skiing, doing particularly well at turning.

Well, I beg to differ. But let's begin at the beginning: The Lesson. After trading in my boots for a bigger pair to accomodate my ginormous man-calves ("Look at them!" I said to the attendant, hoisting one into view.) I strapped on my helmet and headed outside with the Indian man, R, who works with my German friend's boyfriend, who they convinced to come skiing because he could take lessons with me, fun-in-the-sun McPolack. We joined the beginner's group which was made up of 8 or so 10 year old girls. And me and R. Oh, and I was the only student wearing a helmet.

We were eventually (phew!) joined by some other grown-ups but were all barked at like children by our slightly grumpy instructor. At one point he congratulated the children, while chastising us, for our circle-forming abilities. I shouted "Grown-ups rule!" and pumped my fist into the air.

After a solid hour spent doing various maneuvers in our boots alone (Yes, I kept my helmet on the whole time. Sometimes I keep my seatbelt on when I'm sitting a parking lot. You never know.), we walked sideways up the hill in the lesson area and each skiied down. By this time, I'd made some friends with both the grown-ups and the kids in class, one of whom (a kid) kept insisting that she didn't need no stinking lessons, cause she'd been skiing since she was five. "Make sure you watch me go down! I can turn and stop" said the wee whippersnapper. I watched. She crashed. I gave her some kid-appropriate shit. Later she sang "Back it up! Back it up!" to the class when the instructor said we were standing too close together. I heard another little girl, a particularly lippy one in a purple leopard print hat, shout "Jesus Christ!" at someone, sounding every inch like a world-weary 25 year old. Jesus Christ, indeed.

Actually, she was kind of a riot, a pint-sized self-assured mouthy broad. I saw her a couple of other times throughout the day and we greeted each other with a nod and a "How's it going?"

So after an hour and a half we made our way to the bunniest of bunny slopes where we made a pathetic attempt to follow the instructor's directions to meet a third of a way up the slope, which involved stepping off the T-bar (no rope tows in sight, thank God) awkwardly, and then skiing one by one down the mountain. The girl who'd been "skiing since she was five" crashed rather spectacularly into a fence (that's hubris for you) but came out unscathed and poor R crashed right into me as I was waiting in line to go back up the hill.

But I didn't crash at all. Turns out my man-legs were made for this sport. I had a couple of runs that made me feel particularly confident and almost in love with skiing, but I also had a couple where I was going so fast my stomach dropped out from under me and I felt genuine fright.

Would I go again? I don't know. Perhaps if I lived a life of leisure, or had a bit more money, or lived a bit closer. I could see myself doing well at this sport if I took my time. It was kind of zen, figuring out each of the bunny slopes I went down (3 total) -- it's just you and the mountain. But I really don't like going fast, not at all. I hate roller coasters and that's what it felt like I was on a couple of times, only I wasn't strapped into anything but a pair of short, shaped skis.

But I've slayed the demon that was born when I was twelve. The thought of skiing no longer makes me feel like a chubby little unloved kid. And there's already another to take my place, a sweet girl named Molly with pink cheeks, blond hair, and freckles, who just looked so alone in the group of girls, and sad, even as we all rallied around her and tried to give her confidence, yelling "Go Molly!" as she tried to make her way down the hill. Hopefully it won't take her twenty years to find herself there.