Now that I think about it, maybe it's latent fear of supernatural retaliation that has kept me from hitting the slopes.
Over the years, many an avid ski addict has tried to convince me that I'm being ridiculous, that careening down a mountain while I'm laden with thousands of dollars of expensive equipment and, let's face it, am peeing a little, is a actually an exhilarating thrill and a half. At this point in my life, though, it's not just fear that's keeping me from skiing; it's pride. I've never actually tried to take a skiing lesson, but I imagine that the experience would parallel the time I dropped in on a beginners karate class (because I'd seen G.I. Jane and wanted to be able to back it up when I threatened to kick some dude's sexually-harassing behind) and was surrounded by eight-year-olds, who could all punch and kick with aplomb, leaving me to feel like a giant, awkward sissy-pants. Having to stumble alongside tiny experts who can already "whish, swoosh" comprehensively would, I guarantee, crumple my self-confidence.
Believe me, I'm terribly jealous of people who can ski as though it's an extension of their natural gait, of their cozy weekend getaways to quaint, snowy cabins at Killington, and lavish trips to Jackson Hole or Aspen, where spraying celebrities with powder is an any-old-day occurrence. Skiing is chic, it's sophisticated, it says, "Look at how in tune with the elements my body has become, dahling. Watch as the snow and my skis practically become one with each other. You go ahead and drift off piste, my little lamb; I'll meet you in the lodge in a jiff for a dubonnet and a plate of organic cheeses."
On the other hand, skiing also says, "Dude, I'm totally stoked right now. This run's gonna be, like, smokin'. Plus, brewskies are getting totally ice cold in the back seat of my Jeep!"
(I can't wait for the flood of e-mails I'm pretty much guaranteed to receive; "Dear Ms. Alterman, You're an idiot. I'm a skier and I don't drink dubonnet or beer, and you're stereotyping a great American pastime. I hate you, and I hate the stupid paper you write for." Everyone relax.)
I mock skiing, but I do so because I fear it. It's much easier for me to make fun of something than to actually get over myself and give it a shot. I know this about myself, and I'm mostly okay with it. But my fears are not unfounded. I know a man who was skiing in Switzerland (presumably making one last run before a glass of the aforementioned aperitif) and wandered off the trail, just for kicks. I should note that this man was an accomplished and lifelong skier, and mega meathead athlete, to boot. Yet not even his athletic prowess could match the awesome power of rocks; specifically, a jagged rock in the middle of the snow. Long story short, he shattered his leg, and had to lie helpless on the slope for hours until someone found him, and went for help. His "one last run" turned into a free ride down a mountain from a Swiss medical-emergency team.
No thanks, skiing.
