“...For my finale, I crashed into a fence, crisscrossed my skis in said fence, and fell flat on my back. It was then I noticed my skis said rise. Rise! Rise!! Rise!!! It was a sign from the snow gods"
You're crazy. That's what I whispered to myself as I stood at the top of a mountain at Camelback Ski Resort. You are crazy.
I'm also a liar. It was not a mountain I was perched upon. It was a hill. The Bunny Hill. Yup.
After practicing on a ten degree incline for longer than can be considered cool, I had taken the skis off. You're not a quitter, I told myself as I clicked my rented boots (cinder blocks) into the skis. Not a quitter. Don't be a quitter, I told myself as I oh-so-slowly moved to the magic carpet ride (that's the conveyor belt skiers [and people like me] use to get to the top of the hill. Note: belt to hill - not lift to mountain. I was stuck with two choices: Ski or log roll.
I skied. Ish.
I zigzagged. I pizza'd. I fell on my backside and my chest. I ate snow. I swore. It took me over an hour to get downhill! For my finale, I crashed into a fence, crisscrossed my skis in said fence, and fell flat on my back. It was then I noticed my skis said "rise."
Rise! Rise!! Rise!!! It was a sign from the snow gods. Determined, I joined the five year old Jedi of Skiing (no poles!) on the conveyor belt of courage. Run Fall Rise.
Did it take me an hour to get to the bottom of the hill? Reader, you bet your sweet bippy it did. Did the snow taste salty from my tears? Yes. Did I make progress? A li'l bit. Did I try again? Nopitty nope nope nope.
My bruised ego and butt carried me to the restaurant for a slope-side Guiness. I celebrated what was left of my dignity and watched people fly gracefully down the mountain. I glared over my pint glass at my reflection in the window.
Next time, Hill. I'll be back.