|My family and I recently got back from a magical trip to Beaver Creek, CO.
I am not a girl who grew up skiing. I am Miami born and raised, and most of our family vacations were tropical. So when my husband and I went on our first ski trip two years ago, it should go without saying, that I was less than a “skilled skier”. In fact it would not be completely inaccurate to say that I was terrible. Our first instructor became so nervous and flustered attempting to teach me to ski, he called in sick the next day.
I guess watching someone lose control and go straight down a green (beginner) run, with no control, and no knowledge of how to stop- is hard for some people.
Well this time around, I did eventually catch the hang of of it. By catch the hang of it, I mean I can very gingerly make it down the mountain without dying.
Now- I have filled you in on how limited I am on skis, let me tell you how my husband and the other “responsible” adults who were all aware of my deficiency set me up to fail on this trip.
My husband, three friends of ours, a ski instructor, 4 of our combined children, and myself all wanted to ski down an easy run together. We had to split off to go on the chair lift. Our girls wanted to go with my husband, and my son with me. Since there are two kids with my husband, the ski instructor decides to ride with them.
Somehow all of these “skilled” skiers, these responsible adults, have left ME alone with my son. I try to be cool and confidant. I mean of all the times I had fallen, I had never fallen on a ski lift. I can’t let my 5 year old son catch even a whiff of how insane I think everyone else is for leaving us, so I’m playing it cool as I watch them all get on the lift ahead of us.
There goes the chair in front of us, I say “Ok buddy time to start scooting, let’s go.” Only he had dropped something and didn’t scoot right along with me. The ski lift guys swoop in and take Tristan out of the chair lift lane, breaking our hand hold, and somehow I am sitting on a chair alone with my son crying in this guy’s arms.
So I did what any warm blooded, anxiety filled, nervous spaz would do- I threw myself off the lift right before it began to go up. My skis went flying, the lift came to a stop. I looked over and the ski lift guys are not happy. As I start to come to, I realize they are also yelling at me really loud.
“Ma’am you cannot do that! We would have sent him up with someone on the next lift. Are you crazy?!”
First of all, who the hell are they calling “ma’am” and secondly my son is not going up with anyone else. I stood up, grabbed my son, grabbed my skis, and made eye contact with no one as I sat us on the lift. I looked back at the lift guys and just said, “carry on.”
And they did. When we got to the other side of the lift, there were all the “responsible adults” laughing and whispering amongst themselves, “what did you do to make the lift come to a stop!?!” they ask.