Where’s the bunny hill? I hadn’t skied in at least a decade since I was probably in 8th grade. My nerves were calmed by the assumption my body could simply glide down the bunny hill. I was even willing to swallow my pride and ski among little kids learning to ski. Well, I didn’t plan on Breckenridge ski resort in Colorado being so serious. I should have. My bad. “No bunny hill?” I shrieked after I strapped on rented boots and skis. My feet scooted toward the lift. My stomach hurt knowing full well I had never been on a ski lift and that I’m afraid of heights. My head turned back toward the lodge where my friend hobbled over after being convinced she shouldn’t ski in Colorado for her first time. There was no bunny hill after all. Dismissing the idea that my body would be warm near a cozy fireplace, I slid to the lift. My anxiety worsened with thoughts of falling off the lift and not knowing how to coast off it onto the slopes. My fingers grabbed the bar near my seat as the lift scooped me up off the ground. Without the big gloves, my knuckles would surely be white, cramped and frozen in fear. As soon as I felt snow under my skis, my arms stabbed the poles into the ground and pushed, thrusting my body forward. A little too much power. I nearly knocked a fellow skier over before falling in the hard snow to stop myself. I looked down the slope. A blanket of white snow. Green pine trees. The bottom or end of the slope was not visible. Oh shit. This was no bunny hill, not even close. How the hell am I going to make it down? On the red sled - the slope ambulance - with broken bones from tumbling down the slope or smacking into a tree? The only pointers I remembered as a kid was to use my butt as a brake: fall on it to stop. And to control my speed by pointing the skis inward and bending my knees. Now’s the time I wish I had a ski instructor. My snowboarding friend tried to help but I only held him up. “Go on without me. I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you down there,” I said trying to believe those words. I made it a whole two minutes before the snow cushioned my butt. I put a donut hole pillow to sit on for the plane ride home on my mental checklist. Snowboarders and skiers, young and old, flew by me. After a couple spills, I picked up the pace and the wind slapped my face. Alas, I safely made it down one run without any serious injuries other than some major bruising. I sighed with relief and beamed with pride. I just upgraded my ski bunny status.
