Growing up in the south, I didn’t see much snow.  Actually, we didn’t see ANY snow.  Christmas mornings were often greeted in t-shirts and shorts.  I didn’t see snow for the first time until I was a freshman in high school.  We got up, got ready for school, opened the front door to head to the bus, and stood in awe at inches of freshly fallen snow.  I didn’t own a coat, or snow boots.  But it didn’t matter.  I went running in to it full tilt to experience it.

Flash forward to my adult years, and I’ve never had a winter where I wasn’t exposed to snow.  Living in New York City, snow wasn’t a pleasant experience.  Ever jump a three-foot ice puddle?  It ain’t fun.  And New York City snow is not white and fluffy, or at least not for long.   It’s black and slushy, and you certainly don’t want to dive in and make snow angels in all that filth.

What I wished I looked like skiing…

When we moved to Denver, I had no interest in snow sports.  Jon has skied before and wanted to check out some of the nearby ski resorts, but I’m more content to stay in a lodge, drinking some spiked coffee or hot chocolate.  Once Mr B. got old enough, Jon enrolled him in ski school at a nearby ski area called Eldora.  It’s close by, the lift tickets are pretty affordable, and the ski school didn’t cost an arm and a leg.  Mr B’s been going to ski lessons now for two winters, and I’ve never seen him ski.  So when my brother, an avid snowboarder, came in to town this past weekend and suggested that he and I take ski lessons, I was hesitant.  But the draw was that I’d get to see my tiny five year old ski down a mountain.  We contacted Mr B’s ski instructor, who offered to give us some lessons.  Friday night, my brother Jason and I got our rental equipment.  Saturday morning, our babysitter arrived at 8am to watch Piper for the day.  And by 10am that morning, I was strapped in to skis and about to shit my pants.

What I think I looked like skiing…

I don’t know very many dancers that ski.  There’s a pretty big “I don’t wanna rupture or tear or break anything” factor involved.  And if my experience as a teenager water skiing on the lake with my father was any indication of how I’d fare in the snow, everyone at Eldora was about to get a healthy dose of my spread-eagled legs as I fell down the hill.  Our instructor, Angela, reassured me that I wouldn’t break anything and that she’d prepare me for this as well as she could.  It didn’t help that Jason, doing the lesson with me, got pretty comfortable on his skis early on.  And while I could have spent all day at the kid section and the long ride up the magic carpet, Angela and Jason were ready to move on to the slope.

What I really looked like skiing…

 The ski lift wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be (though Jason and I were privileged to see not one, but TWO groups of folks fall out of the chair in front of us at two separate occasions).  Getting down the steep part of the hill?  Yeah, I didn’t do so well.  Jon and Mr. B saw us from the adjacent slope and skied over to greet us and encourage me along down the hill.  Or maybe their motive was just to take embarrassing video of me and my Chevy Chase-like falls.  I did NOT like going down the steep part.  Angela kept yelling at me to get in to a wedge position to slow myself down (or “Pizza, Mommy!” as Mr. B screamed), but if I was turning to the right, I could never get my feet all the way around to stop.  Rather than plowing in to a small child at top speed, I chose on several occasions to just bail out of the run and fall flat on my ass, screaming obscenities along the way.  I was a flailing, uncoordinated mess.  My arms, having a mind of their own, flapped and coiled in a T-Rex sort of way that was less than graceful.  It’s sad when, as a grownup, you can stare at your small child and envy his confidence and coordination.  If anything, I was so happy to get to see Mr. B on skis.  He just exudes confidence.  And swagger, if a five-year old is capable of that.  This kid is amazing, and I continue to be very impressed.  It was no big deal to him, and I think he relished in being able to give me some tips and educate ME on something.

It wasn’t long after our lessons were over, lunch was consumed, and I’d fallen hard during a couple of runs with the family that I decided to call it quits.  Recalling that the lodge served beer, I headed over to nurse my wounds in alcoholic consumption.  This?  This I was good at.  This alpine sporting stuff is better left to my Kindergartner.  Sunday I could barely walk because my calves were in a high-level revolt from being strapped in ski boots all day.   I think I’ll just stick to dancing…