Ski Lessons

I am finally going skiing this weekend and I cannot wait. I love to ski; it's a major reason why I like the winter more than a lot of people. 


I started skiing in middle school. The first time I went, I took an obligatory learn-to-ski lesson. I was better than most of the kids in my class. Not to brag or anything, but I'm pretty good at winter sports (see: me as a less-talented/less-Asian version of Michelle Kwan). I could basically slalom while the rest of the kids still needed tow ropes. I felt like a prodigy. So of course, I moved on from the bunny slope directly to a blue. This is what people call overconfidence.

Because it was absolutely vital for the Twittersphere to know
that someone was selling burritos on the chairlift.

I probably should have started with a green; but hey, I took one lesson and mastered the pizza stop, so I was essentially a professional. Unfortunately, the pizza stop can only do so much when you're barreling out of control down a mountain at 40 miles per hour (This is a made up number. I have no idea how to even exaggerate this accurately. Exaggerate accurately). I crashed almost immediately after getting off the chairlift and was consequently terrified. I said to myself, "Fuck this shit," took off my skis, and proceeded to walk down the mountain.


Now, walking down a mountain takes roughly 1-2 hours, give or take. And during this time, your friends and family will likely commission a search party because they're concerned that you may have actually died.

I got about half-way down the mountain when a red snow mobile (evidently a part of the ski patrol) pulled up next to me.

Ski Patroller: "Are you Katie?"

Me: "Yes."

Ski Patroller: "People are looking for you."

Me: "Tell them I'll be down in 30-40 minutes."

Apparently, that was not a sufficient answer. I guess it was protocol that if ski patrol has to come searching for you, then you are required to ride down with them on the back of a snow mobile. This was pretty embarrassing, especially because waiting for me at the base of the mountain was a literal crowd of people who wanted to know who the idiot was that had her name called out over the intercom for the last hour and a half.

It was me.

Said idiot.

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I was forced to go to First Aid and take off my shirt.


I should clarify that. Even though I assured them I was fine, because I had mentioned falling on my back, they required me to take off my shirt so they could look at it. Or so they say. I mean, at this point in my life I basically have no problem taking my shirt off in front of strangers, but when I was 11, that was traumatizing. But as they say, out of tragedy comes triumph. Or something like that. Look, I don't know how to end this story.


Bye.