So many lessons all tucked into one little task. Something
about procrastination – I slid into the second last class on the very last day
of ski season. Something about independence – planning to do things with
friends is often a chore akin to rounding up cats, I ended up doing this one
solo. And perhaps something about what my mother often warned us of when we
were little – “keep that up and your face will freeze that way”.
Oh so bravely, read: with sheer terror, I ventured up to
Snow Valley Ski Resort in Barrie ,
and lemminged my way along with the masses of people who appeared to know exactly
what they were doing. I ended up in a
room full of boots – generally something that would make me grin wildly, but
instead left me scratching my head.
After a bit of trial and error I learned I take a size 639 ski boot,
with fancy buckles and hidden torture devices designed to squeeze my calf
muscled into submission. I scored some
skis and poles and wandered outside.
The baffled look on my face gave me away immediately. A nice
man took pity on me and guided me through my list of silly questions. “How do
you tell the difference between left and right?” “How do I put these things on?”
“where do you keep the paramedics?” He
got me all buckled in, put a sticker on my jacket that declared in ski-code
something that I think meant “STEER CLEAR FROM HER, SHE HAS NO IDEA”.
Turns out, Robert was being paid to take pity on me, he was
my ski instructor. My class was of 15
other procrastinators, the vast majority of them were 4 years old, and whipping
along on their skis with grace and style in no time. The adults in my group had
the disadvantage of fear, and an awareness of gravity. After a few demonstrations, followed by me
flailing about, we were ready for the bunny hill. The teeniest of slopes – you had
to squint and turn your head to actually see that it was a hill… but I totally conquered
that bunny hill.
I was feeling all accomplished and proud of myself when I
heard the terrible words “Ok, now we’re ready for a bigger hill. We’re going on
the Dora Run!” (Aptly named for the wooden cut-outs of Dora, Shrek and friends
placed along the hill ready to jump out in front of you at the most
inconvenient of moments.) Not only did
they expect that I would willingly strap planks to my feet and fling myself
down the hill, they also figured I would do so with control, and the ability to
both steer and stop. They were oh so optimistic.
On my last descent, I was blazing down past Dora, I’m almost
certain I heard her scream in terror as my pole bashed her head on my way by. Take that, Dora! I didn’t look back.
And it’s true, what my mother said. As I drove off in the
bug all impressed with myself, I realized my face had in fact frozen… into a
rather giddy smile.
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