Vermont, Part III

Previously, in Vermont: (In)Sanity Gal learned to ski like a 3-year old.

So head to the big slope we did. I had heard rumors about a chairlift that let you off half-way up so that beginners could have a step up from the bunny slope. As we glided overhead, each passing stretch of slope filled me with a greater sense of doom. What the hell kind of beginners were they talking about?! As I slid off the chairlift (without falling - I saved that for later) and turned to survey the slope, I realized with terror that they certainly weren't talking about my type of beginner. No. Definitely not.

I was standing on the slope frantically hoping that I might suddenly become violently ill or have a heart attack (which seemed like a distinct possibility) or develop a temporary inability to move my legs - anything to keep from having to go down the giant swath of snow in front of me. It appeared to have no end. The babe was talking to me, I think - seriously, who can be expected to listen to instructions when they're about to die?

It appeared that there was nothing to do but throw myself down this giant white death machine and hope that later the babe would write a beautiful story about my last days on Earth. I don't remember starting to ski. I think there was screaming and flailing of arms, and then I did what I can only imagine was a truly stunning somersault, landing squarely on my hip. Execution: 7. Creativity: 8.5!

Immediate tears. Who knew snow was so hard? Maybe if I don't try to get up, they'll just carry me down on a stretcher. But then the babe was there, looking all concerned and asking me if I was crying. No, of course not.... Ok fine. Yes. But I was clearly itching for that final star to finish out my membership application for Masochists of the World. So, with the babe's help, I got up. I know. I should've just gone for the stretcher. Pride is a terrible, terrible thing. My New Year's Resolution is to rid myself of it entirely.

Much to my dismay, I was standing up and about to start "skiing." Again. The babe was saying something about pizza, which I thought was weird since we had just had lunch. But whatever. And we're off! She's screaming behind me. "TURN LEFT....NOW!" "AND NOW RIGHT!" And I'm going - leeeeeeefffft, riiiiiiiiight, leeeeeefff-ayaaaaaaaa. Screaming. Flailing of arms. Small, agile infant children darting out of the way. Falling.

But wait.

Something isn't quite right here.

Am I in Heaven?

I've fallen and yet I'm flying. On my butt. Weird.

Holy lord. Yep, I fell on my ass, but my skis were still flat on the snow. I invented a new sport. Ass skiing. And I was amazing at it. Amazing in that really fast and unable to stop kind of way.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! PEOPLE AHEAD! PEOPLE AHEAD!

A tiny little sane voice inside told me to roll over. And I did. And I stopped. And no one died. Which, at this point, I was finding pretty shocking.

What's even more shocking is that I wasn't at the bottom of the slope yet. I KNOW! What the hell kind of sport is this?

The double shocker: Apparently I got up and did it again. I don't remember that part, but somehow we made it to the bottom. And we left the mountain.

And I swear to you that I was possessed by an Abominable Ski Demon when I said in the car on the way home, "I do really want to go again before we leave."

Stay tuned for Vermont, Part IV.