I’m afraid of heights – so it’s safe to say I had my reservations about skiing for the first time.
As a Florida girl with more life experience in the sun than in the snow, the thought of braving Whistler in the Coast Mountains of British Columbia was intimidating to say the least.
I am happy to report I not only made it off the chairlift intact, I managed – after two days (one at Cypress and one at Whistler), a lot of falls and a few tears – to ski fairly well. I can’t say the same, however, for my Jamaica-native brother-in-law who managed to ski for about 10 minutes before pulling a hamstring and being hauled away via snowmobile, siren and all. Lucky for him, it was St. Patrick’s Day and he could enjoy a much-deserved rest and a green beer in the lodge while he iced his leg and vowed to take the snowboarding route the next time.
The rest of us still had a full day left on the slopes after his injury and my stomach was in knots with nerves and excitement. Overlooking the downhill slope with my mile-long liability waiver and lift pass clipped to my jacket, I felt like a scared little kid with fare money pinned to my shirt and a pat on the head goodbye as my parents left me alone at the bus stop.
It may seem silly, but it was a helpless feeling that I haven’t felt in a long while, in part because of my age, but mostly because I’m a perfectionist, the type of person that likes to stay in control. Whether it’s with a craft project (don’t even ask me how long it takes for me to make a single scrapbook page) or a story I’m writing, I carefully arrange every detail with precision until I am satisfied that I have done my best.