Trying New Things Is Overrated: A Skiing Story

why do it scared when you can... not do it scared?

This weekend, I went skiing for the first time in 21 years—though I can’t fully confirm whether what I did at eight years old actually counts as skiing. What I do remember is spending most of that experience crying in the ski lesson bathroom, desperately hoping my dad would rescue me from this snowy hell.

So, for all intents and purposes, this was my first time skiing. I’m not sure anyone actually enjoys being a beginner, but let me assure you—I do not. Like most humans, I tend to choose activities I know I’m good at or, at the very least, ones where I appear competent. Skiing—a sport that involves sliding down a deliberately slippery, steep hill on two metal french fries—was not on that list.

We arrived in Woodstock, Vermont, on Friday, having been gifted two nights at the Woodstock Inn from Ryan’s mom as part of our Christmas present. After a few hours of adventuring around town, Woodstock lived up to its reputation as a quaint, sleepy, wholesome place filled with overpriced candles and vats of maple syrup.

On Saturday morning, Ryan’s siblings and I woke up early, donned 16 layers of clothing—including, for me, two pairs of leggings under backpacking rain pants—and headed to Saskadena Ski Resort. After spending what I was assured was a reasonable amount of money on ski rentals, Ryan and I made our way to the bunny slope to assess my skill level.

my face summarizes my emotions going into the day

I rode to the top of the bunny hill on a covered conveyor belt lined with stuffed animals—presumably to calm tearful children—and realized I may have just accidentally created a new personal bad place.

I understand there’s nothing inherently embarrassing about a 29-year-old learning to ski, but when you’re hunched over, tongue out in concentration, lurching down a mound of snow, it’s hard to feel like a fully grown woman who manages a team of eleven at work. My brain immediately transported me back to my childhood ski lessons, where feelings of inferiority and anxiety overrode any potential enjoyment.

The good news? I was actually better than I expected. Did I look like a frail, tiny grandmother wobbling her way down the bunny slope? Sure. But did I make it to the bottom without breaking a bone? Yes. Yes, I did.

After one bunny hill run, Ryan decided I was ready to graduate to the chair lift and tackle a trail called Easy Mile. This was a misguided choice—another example of men overestimating my potential—but, as the insufferable star student I am, I obliged.

Getting on and off the chair lift was the closest I’ve felt to death in recent years. My life flashed before my eyes as a bench rammed into the back of my knees, flinging me into the seat, and then immediately lifted me off the ground with weights strapped to my feet. Truly the stuff of nightmares.

My first run down Easy Mile was halting, awkward, and a little bit messy. Ryan calmly tried to explain how to hockey stop while I lurched my way down, swerving to avoid reckless toddlers and trying not to refracture my fibula. But I made it. No broken bones, and my pride only marginally bruised.

After three runs, I needed a break—specifically, I wanted to live out my dream of reading smut in the ski lodge by the fire, embodying the hot lodge mom aesthetic I aspire to.

Inside the lodge, I befriended an older woman who was also reading by the fire—though, regrettably, not smut—and she quickly became my new best friend. I spent the next hour blissfully absorbed in a particularly delicious sex scene while families bustled around me, none the wiser.

Eventually, I decided to get my money’s worth out of the 1.2 million dollars I had spent on lift tickets and ski gear. Ryan, ever vigilant, found me right away, and we headed back up the mountain, averting death on the chair lift once again. This time, he was determined to teach me how to hockey stop, insisting that my reliance on the pizza method—internally rotating my knees in sheer terror—was unsustainable.

I understand, rationally, that practice requires falling. But after two falls—one of which left me face down, splayed out like a starfish in the middle of the run—I started questioning whether I really needed to improve.

It took me at least ten minutes to get up—try maneuvering on a steep, slippery incline while people whiz past you!—and when I finally did, my confidence was a little shaken. I managed one more run to "get back on the horse," as they say, and then officially called it a day.

The rest of the afternoon was spent back at the lodge with my new reading buddy, feeling grateful to have cheated death once again.

Now that I’ve had a few days to reflect, I can give a more objective assessment. I think skiing could be enjoyable for me, but being a beginner is really hard and, at times, demoralizing. The idea of committing to getting good at it is both intimidating and only marginally enticing.

That said, I’m open to taking a lesson the next time I have 1.9 million dollars to spend on a ski day. And I’ll keep an open mind toward the sport—mostly because Ryan enjoys it. If Ryan didn’t like skiing, I don’t think I would ever need to ski again.

The things we do for love.

In summary, I’m alive, uninjured, and relieved to be on solid ground again. I’ll always be more drawn to summers in the mountains, but it’s good to know that if I ever find myself stranded on top of a bunny hill, I can probably make it down.

Please enjoy some content from the day.