The Intumblable Snow-Woman

So going up the chair lift on Dent d’Oche (mountain) my thoughts were as follows:

“Wow, I’m really here, in the real Alps really on a ski lift with REAL skis on! Sweet Jesus I’m awesome. I skied a couple times when I was 10, how hard can it be? And besides! If I’ve forgotten a bunch of stuff I’ve ice skated, I’ve water skied, just….put ‘em together!”

My chair approached the top and, in full view of a million pods of 5-7 year old ski schools, I rode down the gentle slope on my butt with a big “AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Trudging and slipping around for a couple minutes, trying to formulate how to ask for pointers in French, I gloriously heard a man’s voice clear the panic in my brain.

“Where’re you going?” he said to his little puffy pink jacket clad daughter.

“Oh thank God!”

They both looked at me.

“Uh….sorry…..um……I heard you speaking English and I was wondering if you could tell me how to….um…..turn?”

“How to turn?”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“Why’re you here? Go back to the US and stop getting these nutty ideas that get you stuck on the stop of The Matterhorn when you can’t ski! Harumph!”

In reality he was very nice and gave me some “use the force” type suggestions, I just continued to feel foolish.

One snowboarder who helped me up reassured me with the ol’ “It’s like riding a bicycle!” Yes. A bicycle made of solid ice and 2 sticks. 4 if you count the ice picks of death that swung uselessly from my wrists. 36 if you count the ski school I bowled over.

However on the up and up, by the second run I had sort of figured it out sort of and it finally turned fun. Like super fun. Did I fall? No way! Was I scared I would? Hell yes! Did I snow-plow the entire way down like a goofy piece of pizza with a human on it? You bet your sweet ass I did.

Booyah.