January 2012

A few years ago I wrote about how I embraced downhill skiing and learned to love winter. But now I have to confess: I never made it off the bunny hill. 

We moved to Rochester 10 years ago this past December. I knew that to make the winters go faster, we had to learn to enjoy all that the outdoors had to offer. So at the age of 42, I booked a condo at a ski resort called Holiday Valley, and I checked the entire family into ski camp. It was such a big success, the next year I even bought skis (they were on sale). And every year for about five years, with good intentions, I tried to advance as a skier. 

Each year I swore I would conquer the bunny hill. And I did conquer the bunny hill. I was fantastic at that bunny hill. It was every other hill that had me totally stymied. 

Each year my kids got better at skiing. My son got so good at skiing, he decided to try snowboarding. But he figured out the reason you always see those snowboarders sitting in the snow is because that’s the sport: snow sitting. So he went back to skiing and has gotten even better. 

My daughter has no fear, so she is an awesome skier. The blacker the trail the better.  My husband is right behind her, traversing the mountain perpendicularly. He and I both learned the pizza slice stance, but his slices are really good—and he always pushes himself to higher altitudes. 

And then there’s me, working the bunny hill like a pro. In fact, I spent so much time on the bunny hill that people around me thought I was a pro. That may also be because the pros at Holiday Valley wear red ski jackets, and my old ski jacket was red. 

Finally, about three years ago, I had some huge deadlines looming in January. So when we booked our usual five-day trip at Christmastime, I told my husband, “Bring my skis. But I’m not sure how often I’ll go. I think I’ll use this time to write.” And I did. I wrote speeches and articles and even created PowerPoints. I was amazingly productive and creative while the family skied. 

And they seemed fine that I wasn’t skiing, mainly because I was their driver. No searching for parking spots and lugging your skis. No waiting for a bus while lugging your skis. No lugging at all. They had Mom, the chauffeur. 

After I dropped them off, a divine sense of calm would come over me. I’d get a great cup of coffee. I found a place to work out so I could earn my hot chocolate later in the day. (I figured that you don’t get hot chocolate unless you’ve sweated.) So instead of sweating in the snow from shaking in fear waiting for the chairlift, I sweated on a treadmill while reading a magazine. And then I would return to the condo for hours of peaceful thinking and creating. I even made sure to book myself a great massage. 

Some days my husband would call me to pick him up, leave the kids on the slope and return to the condo for a delightful “lunch.” I would drive him back to the slopes and the kids were never the wiser. 

We have really learned to love our family time on ski vacation. We visited with old friends and even went out west to Aspen last year. I didn’t ski there. It was breathtaking. I literally could not breathe. But I acclimated to the altitude just fine while ogling celebrities all over town, and I never missed the skiing. 

The family kept begging me to come back to the slopes. And when I finally did, it ended with me tearfully clinging to an instructor on the side of a mountain and begging him to get me down. 

Over the years, I had many ski instructors who thought they would finally be the one to teach me how to ski with abandon. I even met one in Lebanon who swore he could get me to ski in the mountains surrounding Beirut—in April. 

They were amazing motivational teachers. Very inspiring. And they all failed. 

Yet, I was actually a good student. I’d become quite good at skiing. I hardly fell. And when I did, I had learned how to get up. But each time those motivational ski instructors said, “Let’s go to a bigger hill,” I somehow got out of it. “So sorry, we have to end early, I have to pick up the kids.” Total lie. 

And then I got my first female instructor, who looked into my lying eyes, held my feet to the fire and said, “Girl, it’s time to get off the bunny hill.” Her theory was that if you can ski on the bunny hill, you should be able to ski anywhere. 

So I followed her to the biggest hill. And I proceeded to cry the entire time—going up the chairlift and going down the mountain. At one point my family saw me and stopped to watch me. They yelled encouraging words, probably imagining that I would join them in the winter fun. I shooed them away and looked in desperation at my instructor and begged her to stop the lesson. 

And that’s when she finally asked the question no one had ever asked me before: “Why are you skiing?” 

I was stumped. I had no answer. I started skiing to get my family to enjoy skiing. They enjoyed it. I’d accomplished my goal. Why did I have to continue with the charade? Because I owned the equipment? Because I looked great in my new all-white ski outfit? This was the first instructor who finally gave me permission to stop skiing. 

And so I did. But that didn’t stop people from trying to pressure me into skiing. And then something happened that really helped me figure out why I hate to ski so much. 

We were visiting old friends who had a house in Vermont near Mt. Snow. It was a great time, bonding with my best friend from childhood. We’d always pushed each other to grow in so many ways. But she knew not to push me into skiing. So instead she suggested snowshoeing. 

What a great idea. This is something I can do. No big heavy boots. Just clip these little things that look like animal traps to your own boots and start walking. 

So we did. Straight up the mountain. It was so much fun. I got to wear my great white ski pants and jacket. I felt like a real snow bunny, but there were no chairlift histrionics and no big “honking” skis to trip over. The air was crisp and the sky was blue. We waved at the skiers going down the mountain and the people on the chairlift as we burned a massive number of calories going up the hill. 

And then I asked her, “Uh, how are we getting down this very steep mountain?” She answered flippantly, “We’re going to snow shoe down the mountain.” So we turned around and started down the mountain. And then I realized that I was essentially skiing without the poles and skis, which are actually useful when going down an icy mountain. That familiar desperate feeling came over me. I couldn’t grip the snow with the shoes. I started to slip and slide down the hill. My friend was far ahead of me and motioning me to just get a grip. So I got one. I got down on my white rump and rolled the whole way down. That outfit wasn’t so white when I got to the bottom. 

And then it hit me. What I hate about skiing isn’t the skiing: It’s going downhill. I love going up. I hate going down. I simply hate being out of control on the side of a mountain. 

Now, I’ve done a lot of scary things in my life. I quit the law to become an actress. I’ve spoken in front of hundreds of people. I’ve traveled to faraway places that most women don’t go to alone, like Saudi Arabia. And in tribute to Eleanor Roosevelt, I exhort other people to “do one thing that scares you every day.” But I have decided that on the days my family is skiing, I’ll do something else scary. Like play a card game. And that will be fine. 

As I write this, I’m planning to travel for business to Dubai, where there is an indoor ski hill in a mall. I know this because everyone says perhaps this will be the place where I will finally conquer my fear and learn to ski. And I’m thinking, ‘Nah, I’d rather go there to shop.’ 

That I know how to do. And the only thing scary about shopping is getting the bill.

As first published in the Democrat + Chronicle and on the USA Today Network.