My First Time Skiing

Last weekend, I braved the 3,600-foot mountain that is Mt. Snow, VT, and went skiing for the first time in my life. For starters, I had a helluva time deciding whether to board or ski. The majority of my friends board. And my snowboarding ex spent a good year ramming into my brain the fact that a skier is nothing more than a "two-plank fruit-booter." I did not know what that meant, but he said it with such disdain that I resolved never to boot fruit. Ever. But when J recently invited me on a winter-wonderland getaway, I was faced with two options: To ski or to ride? Skiing looked doable. Riding looked like a combination of skateboarding, surfing and breaking my neck. But it wasn't the falling that scared me. It's just that I know me, and I knew that if I tried to place both feet on one stationary board, I would get insanely frustrated with my inability to stay off my ass. And seeing that I vividly recall eating pavement in 10th grade thanks to a skateboard, along with the fact that I'm about as coordinated as Screech Powers... well, my choice was clear.

We arrive at Amazing Planet! late Friday night. Gotta love a farm that contains an exclamation point in the name. The next day, I slip into a pair of hand-me-down ski pants, a purple coat borrowed from J and a pair of too-big ski gloves courtesy of S. Mismatched gear and all, I. Look. Awesome. While my experienced boarding friends scatter, I schlep to the ski school alone, where I wait in line behind a bunch of 5-year-olds. After 10 minutes, a woman kindly points me in the direction of the "adult school." Oh. There I meet my instructor Joe, who spends the first 20 minutes instructing my group on where to place our lift tickets. Note that my group consists of five people: a guy about my age who wouldn't stop talking about how great of a skier his girlfriend is, a 13-year-old girl, an older man missing a few teeth, and an excessively made-up blonde woman straight out of the Housewives of New Jersey.