I am almost 23, and until a few weekends ago, the closest thing to skiing I had ever done was at my friend Elizabeth Taylor’s house in the sixth grade. After bribing me with a Rider Strong poster from Tiger Beat, she convinced me to strap on her parent’s cross-country skis and slide around her “backyard” (read: a hill with a patio). The moment I lifted my poles, I began plummeting toward the row of thick trees that marked the end of her yard. As she had given me no direction in the way of stopping, steering, or general ski operation, the only thing I could think to do was scream “Elizabeth Taylor, help me!” which in retrospect must have sounded rather odd to anyone who happened to overhear. She responded by falling into me, sending our bodies and equipment tumbling in various directions.
Thoroughly traumatized, I could barely muster the strength to stare dreamily at the back of her older brother’s head (on whom I had a crush) as he and Elizabeth drove me home later that evening, “Flip Fantasia” thumping through the speakers of his Mazda.
Understandably, I have never had the desire to repeat this experience, and I explained this to my fianc? Matt.
“But Miranda, downhill skiing and cross country skiing have nothing to do with each other,” he responded, shaking his head.
“Uh, I beg to differ-you’re sliding around on skinny slippery things while holding pointy sticks. There’s no difference there.”
After the above conversation, Matt would bring up the idea of skiing together from time to time, and I would respond by noncommittally nodding and “mmhmm”-ing, as I didn’t really think it would ever come to fruition. Then, a month or so ago, Matt proposed that we spend Valentine’s Day weekend at Sunday River. Sigh. What am I supposed to say to that, hmm? No honey, I don’t want to spend a romantic ski weekend with you because Elizabeth Taylor traumatized me at a young age? Hardly. And besides, if I was going to live in Maine, it was high time that I embraced the whole winter thing, and at least tried to enjoy some sort of outdoor sporting activity, as apparently shopping in the Old Port didn’t count.
I did my very best to get excited for this trip. Luckily it wasn’t terribly hard, because Matt said I needed “gear,” and that meant shopping. I bought a jacket, coordinating ski pants, devised the most flattering hair-under-hat style (French braided pig-tails), and even perfected my “swish, swish” sound effect-I was ready.
Or, so I’d thought.
“There’s no way I can go down that,” I insisted, shaking my perfectly plaited pigtails. Matt gestured at the practically vertical slope in front of me.
“But honey, this is the easiest trail on the mountain.”
“Can’t I just take my skis off and walk down the side?” I whimpered as Sponge Bob Square Pants outfitted toddlers rocketed past me.
“You could, but it’s easier to ski down, I promise. I’ll be with you the whole time.” Matt reached for me.
“No!” I screeched, rooting myself into the snow with my poles, paralyzed by the prospect of flying uncontrollably down this trail. Kindergarteners swept past me, their skis mocking me with the very noise I had been practicing all week long. Zygotes on skis couldn’t very well show me up, could they? Certainly not; if they could ski, so could I. I took a deep breath, turning my skis from their sideways position to face the bottom of the hill. Gravity immediately tugged me forward, and in a split second I was hurtling diagonally toward the tree-lined edge. I did the only thing I knew how to do: I screamed and dropped into the snow.
“Are you ok?” Matt asked as he hauled me up by my jacket (this was not my most dignified moment).
“I can’t do this, I just can’t.” I looked around, searching wildly for the ski patrol so I could beg them to take me down the mountain on one of those red sleds; pride was not a factor in my quest for an escape.
“What if I take you down between my skis?” Matt offered.
“Like those kids with their parents? No.” Apparently I did still have some pride. And yet, after a few more repeats of the above screaming/falling scenario, it became clear that this was my only option. So Matt stood behind me and placed his skis on the outside of mine, and we started. It was immediately too fast.
“Stop! Stop! I can’t!” I wailed as we zipped down the mountain. Poor Matt had to not only navigate us, but also hold me up, as I kept leaning back in terror.
“It’s ok, we’re almost at the bottom.” I could see that my darling fianc? was employing a bit of exaggeration, and promptly squeezed my eyes shut, all the while continuing to scream, “No!!!” over and over again. Where was Elizabeth Taylor when you needed her?
“Here we are.” We slowed, and I opened my eyes, only to see a long line of onlookers waiting for the chairlift. Judging by their expressions, they had heard me coming. Regardless, I was now on level ground, and my harrowing ordeal was over.
Although it was a less than auspicious start, I gave it a shot, and that’s what really matters, right? And besides, I have a goal: next year I’m going to rock the rope tow. That’s right Sponge Bob wannabes-I’m perfectly plaited and coordinated. That’s what we call a “double threat.” Swish, swish.