I Got the Blues

A little over two months ago, I took on my first and biggest challenge of 2010: to conquer two sticks. (That's insider lingo for skis, by the way.) Throughout my two years of fertility treatments, I swear I became so tightly wound that a 50-lb lump of coal had surely found its way up my ass and was slowly turning into a million-carat diamond. And so, the idea of putting myself in a position of being horribly out of control rather than so unbelievably structured felt...in a word...freeing.

Driving to the ski resort over New Year's I was really nervous. And for good reason. I'd only been skiing about 3 times in my 38 years up until that point. The first time was in middle school when I went to Mt. Holly in Michigan with the ski club. I don't remember much about that excursion, except for one thing: my sheer and utter panic as I flew down the hill (and in Michigan it really is a hill) with absolutely no idea how to stop. After that there was skiing in France at 16 on an exchange trip (it didn't go well) and a trip to Tahoe in 2007 (it went okay because I only did two beginner runs and called it a day).

Fast forward to Tahoe 2010. I spent that first morning on the bunny hill, which was totally fine by me. But, after lunch, the MR. thought I should graduate to the grown-up lift and try an easy green run that I'd done back in 2007. Feeling confident in my snowplowing after practicing with all the 5-year-olds learning to ski for the first time, I agreed. If I'd done the run before, surely I could do it again. Right?

Doing my best to move towards the ski lift (not an easy feat on flat ground wearing skis), the first thing I noticed was a big-ass sign that said NOT A BEGINNER SKI LIFT. Um. Yea. Not exactly a confidence booster. Turning to the MR. I said, "Are you sure I did this run three years ago? I don't remember that sign." And he said, "Yes. Absolutely."

As the lift slowly brought us up the mountain, I racked my brain trying to find anything familiar about the scenery. Getting a little nervous and sweaty in all the wrong places, I asked the MR. again, "Are you sure I did this run before? I just don't remember it." To which he said, in his exasperated, why-don't-you-ever-believe-me voice, "I can't promise you enough that you did this run before. I don't know what else to tell you so that you'll believe me." Well, geesh. If you're gonna put it that way.

The triumph was that I got off the ski lift without a hitch. Score one for Darrah Jane. But then, we skied over to the start of the run. From my perspective, I was staring straight down a white vertical wall. Surely my death was imminent. My heart started racing, tears formed at the corners of my eyes and all I could think was, "How the hell did I do this three years ago?" With no way to go but down, I tentatively pushed off and hoped for the best.

Now, for all I know, I was only going .025 miles an hour, but it felt like I was going 250 miles an hour. I honestly think I held my breath the entire way down, and I am not ashamed to admit that I truly considered pulling off to the side, plopping down in the snow and crying...hard. I didn't care if I'd have to live on that mountain for the rest of my life, just as long as I didn't have to ski the rest of the way, I'd do anything.

By an act of God, I didn't fall and I made it down in one piece. That's the good news. On the flip side, I was a nervous wreck. My hands were shaking and my legs felt like Jello. At the bottom, the MR. actually looked at me and said, "Do you want to try it again?" Are you insane? Seriously? Try it again? I almost died of a heart attack up there! So he headed up the mountain in a huff and I headed back to the warm womb of the bunny hill.

I didn't see the MR. for the rest of the day. I was annoyed with him and he was annoyed with me. So we were even. Around 3pm, he came skiing over to my side of the mountain and hockey-stopped right in front of me. He took off his goggles and said, "I owe you a huge apology. That's not the run you did 3 years ago." AH-HA! It was like the sky parted and a heavenly host of angels started singing Hallelujah. Turns out, not only was it a run I'd never done before, but it was a BLUE, people. That's an intermediate-level run. And worse than that, the run is called THE CHUTE! The name says it all.

I'm proud to say that I've come a long way since that first trip back in early January. I'm skiing blues now and have only fallen a couple of times. Of course, one fall induced a panic attack in the middle of the run, but let's not dwell on that. No doubt, looking straight down at a vertical strip of snow is still equal parts humbling and balls-out terrifying. The fear burns white-hot in the middle of my chest and all I can think about is giving up. But then I hear a small, timid voice inside my head say, "You can do this." And that's my cue to go for it. The MR. said it best, "You're better than this. You're better than the fear." He wasn't saying that I couldn't feel fear. Instead, he was telling me to believe in my ability. I'm better than I think.

Last weekend, I had the best run of my life. It was so much F-U-N! The rush of cold air on my face was life changing. I didn't want it to end. To say I had a big grin on my face when I got to the bottom would be an understatement. After looking back up the mountain from where I'd just come, I turned to the MR. and said, "That was my best run yet!" To which he said, "That was The Chute." Well, I'll be.