I’ve never liked snow. People are often surprised by this when I tell them I spent the first 18 years of my life in Massachusetts, home to the snowiest cities in the country. I’ve never understood this. If someone says they grew up in Nebraska no one responds, “You must love tornadoes!" Anyhow, because I never liked snow and my mother really despises it, my family never skied and therefore 26 years of my life went by with the extent of my knowledge being that some people keep their ski lift tags on their coats and that’s how you can tell they’re rich.

All that changed this past week when I flew to Denver with my friends to "conquer the Rockies,” so the expression goes. And by “conquer” I mean that I successfully slid my ass down 90% of this one Green Circle slope of Breckenridge. Skiing is not easy.



If you’ve never skied before, allow me to explain how it all goes down.

First, you spend about 2 hours getting to the mountain. This part is awesome because the views are incredible.

Next, you get to the ski shop where you pay many dollars to wear the most uncomfortable contraptions known to mankind. They are essentially torture devices that latch onto your feet so you cannot move them. You are told that is the point, not to be able to move at all, and you question how you will be able to ski if you are not able to move. Then you realize it’s super easy to balance on one foot when that foot has a ski boot on. You find relief at this realization and play around with balancing postures while some friends look on embarrassed and others join in. A picture is taken.



You aren’t sure how, but you finally get the other boot on and your foot might be broken but at least it’s in a boot so success. You’ve got all your gear with you and as soon as it’s time to head to the slopes, you need to use the bathroom. You’ll end up holding it for hours.



You get to the part where you take the ski lift up to the mountain. You’ve known in some abstract manner that this moment was coming, but now you are sitting precariously on a metal bench suspended 50 feet* in the air with nothing keeping you safe and your legs each have about 20 pounds* of stuff on them and it seems like this might be the end of your life. (*All numbers are estimates.) You wonder if anyone has ever thrown up from a ski lift, or if lift tickets are so expensive because of the insurance the resorts are required to hold. This thought terrifies you. But you keep it together.



You assume the hard part is over. It’s not. You follow the instructions of your experienced skier friends and within moments of touching down you are on the ground and cannot get up. “WTF,” you think, over and over again. Twenty-five minutes later, you can stand again, but you never stay up longer than about 30 seconds on your first run. (You learn that going down the mountain is called a “run” and make a mental note for social media caption purposes.) You find out that if you sit down for too long, a man in a red jacket will come over and check on you so you never do that again.

Your friends are amazingly supportive. They explain to you how to ski, which is important but not nearly as important as how to get up when you fall, which also has a specific technique. They don’t make fun of you when they can see you’re about five seconds away from bawling your eyes out. And even though they could be off shredding the black diamonds they are here helping you not die and you are grateful. You learn to stop (or “plough”) and ploughing is your new favorite thing in life. Eventually, you make it down and are so happy you decide that’s enough and take a PB&J break.



The second run is better, but not great. You just keep saying pizza-french fry over and over in your head until eventually you french fry for longer than five seconds and you cry, “french fry!!!!” and realize you’re actually having fun. A group of seven-year-olds whips by, rolling their eyes, leaving you in their snowy dust.



On the third run, your friends are like, “OK bye, now we are actually going to go do the skiing.” So you are alone on the green circle mountain, staring out into the vast expanse of white. You’re on a mountain and the easiest way to get down is to do something that was impossible a half hour ago. You can do this, you tell yourself and then you chuckle at the absurdity of positive self-talk. But it works somehow so you keep doing it. Pizza-french fry. Jumbo slice! Jumbo slice becomes such a critical self-mantra on the mountain you are convinced it must have sacred powers. You piece together all the advice from friends and swish by swish, you make it through the entire run without falling once. At one point, you’re in the flow of it and everything is quiet and you realize you’re totally at peace and not scared anymore. You’re even a little sad when it ends. There’s time for one more run but your knees are so wrecked (and as it turns out, covered in bruises) you decide to end the day there on a high note, which by the way is actually a really legitimate positive memory-making technique.



You get to the bar to meet up with everyone and sit down with a beer to regale them with your tale of not falling even once and doing it all by yourself and suddenly you’re tearing up about it. Your friend notes that it must be all the hip opening that’s unlocking these emotions and you say yes, that must be it.



And damn are your hips sore.

