I'm Not a Thrill Seeker

"Jews Don't Ski" - My Mom
I learned this weekend that there might be some truth to that statement.
At least in my case.

After mentioning in passing, to asking if I'd be interested, to buying me snow pants, it was clear that Steve really wanted me to go skiing with him this past weekend. Along with his cousin, we made the trip to Tanglewood Mountain in PA.
We bought lift tickets and rented boots and skis. Now I've
never been skiing. Ever. The idea of freezing-cold wind whipping past me as I barrel down a hill on thin, wooden planks never appealed to me. But once can't hurt, right? I'll cross it off my bucket list.

Walking in those ski boots before I actually put on the skis gave me sort of a pimp strut. Heel, toe, across the snow. My ski pole was a great pimp cane. Now all I needed was a feathered hat. This part is fun, I thought, maybe the rest won't be so bad?

Anyway, Steve taught me the basics, the pizza pie to slow down, the "S" down the hill so you're not barreling out of control along the mountain. The first hour or so I was doing more flailing my arms, running into nets and falling than actually skiing straight. But then all of a sudden, I hit my stride. I was zig zagging down that bunny hill. I even wanted to go faster. I totally thought I was with it, a thrill seeker looking for my next adrenaline high.

I was so pleased with my progress, that I decided I was above this bunny hill and could try my skills on the beginner hill.

I. Was. So. Wrong.

I started out okay down the mountain, but then I lost control and fell to the side. Then I tried again, and down I went. Over and over again. About a third of the way down, every part of my body hurt. I forgot everything I learned and panicked as I barreled down. Screw having the wind in my hair and looking for that adrenaline rush. I wanted more than anything to get off that hill.

Steve tried to calm me down, but it was no use. We went back and forth from walking down the mountain to him slowly guiding me down. We finally made it to the bottom; all that was left was the chair lift. Now, that should have been a fun ride, but after what I considered to be my near-death experience, all I kept thinking about was this dinky lift breaking and the two of us plummeting to our snowy, cold deaths.

"Don't you think this chair lift is a little romantic?" says Steve. "No", I whimper.

And then, music to my ears: "I'll never make you go skiing again."