Tuesday, December 13, 2011

A Snowball's Chance in Hell

Sums up the likelihood that I was going to make it down the mountain gracefully the first time I went skiing.

I would like to let my avid fans know (all 16 of you), that this is an amazing story- but I want to keep you as fans, so I am going to break it up to really pique your interest.

During Katrina, I went to school in Boston with the hopes of experiencing a totally new culture (e.g. not making eye contact AT ALL on public transportation or talking to strangers in the grocery store) and different weather. Needless to say, my  hopes were absolutely fulfilled. I mastered the T, went to a lot of the museums, and brought a large box of cannolis home with me for Thanksgiving. I also took advantage of the cold climate and worked with my friend to get her to organize a ski trip to Vermont. (I also begged the same friend to take me to Friendly's the entire semester and when she finally did- the week before I left- I was somewhat incredibly disappointed- to which she responded, "This is why I did not want to take your dumbass to Friendly's- what did I tell you!?")

We arranged to go skiing during the first weekend of December. We put together a motley crew to head to the mountains of Vermont: Nicole, a Mass native who had been skiing her whole life; her friend J, a girl from CT who grew up going to ski resorts but never actually skied; Nicole's other friend, "Guy" who was also from Mass and an experienced snowboarder (and who I was somewhat dating at the time); Mikey, a friend of mine from Louisiana who was also a Katrina refugee who had been snow boarding once; and me- a novice to everything including mountains, the snow, and most of all, skiing.

Due to my extreme naivete, I was really excited for the trip. I called my parents to let them know. My Dad, who had lived in Colorado for a while, gave me some words of wisdom: "Your friends will be way more experienced than you and will try to convince you to go to the top of the mountain. Don't let them do it. And when they do finally convince you, don't smoke weed before you go." ***I come from a straight-shooting family. And my parents were young in the 70s. Enough said***

Our caravan made it to the mountain, rented our gear, and got ready to go. And here I use 'gear' like I looked like I belonged there- really I was in a borrowed ski getup from my friend's mom. It was incredibly early 90s with huge pink and green color blocks. It was rad. It even had extra pockets to store my pogs in.

Since J and I had never skied before, we decided it would be best if we took some lessons. We kept talking about how hot our young instructor was going to be. Our conversations always seemed to mimic cheesy romance movies. I kept thinking how he would find my Katrina story endearing, which I would top off with a southern accent to really turn the flirt up. J and I were in the midst of one of these conversations when our ski instructor interrupted us to introduce herself. "Girls, my name's Wheezy. I've been a ski instructor for over 40 years. If you listen to what I say, you'll do just fine."

Wheezy meant business.

While our dreams slowly deflated, J and I "rode the magic carpet" a few times and learned how to pizza wedge among a gaggle of 6 year old kids with helmets that looked like monsters. Really, it should have been J and me with the helmets on. There is not much that is more humiliating than falling 5 times on the way down the bunny slope while little booger eaters speed by you. It took a lot of self control not to stick my pole out and take a few down. J and I tried to make light of everything, but Wheezy was not having it. She definitely gave us our money's worth and after her  "reminder tips" and cold goodbye, we met back up with our friends.

1 comment:

  1. I still want to go to Friendly! In my 3 years in Boston I couldn't get anyone to go with me :)