Breathe Magazine

“Ma’am. Ma’am! Please move out of the way of the oncoming skiers,” an intercom voice boomed. Flat on my face in thick powder, I knew it was talking to me. Not a good sign. Suffice it to say, being announced via loudspeaker was not the way I’d intended to make my snowboarding debut at Sugarbush Ski Resort.

No, the original plan had been to coast off the chairlift a la Peekaboo Street. Instead I’d been ejected sunnyside up, immobile and inches away from a crushing parade of fellow passengers literally leaping over my contorted body to the snowy slopes beyond.

Legs akimbo, I cried out, “I’m stuck, damnit!”

“Kins, you gotta get out of the way,” I could just make out the shouts from my fiancé Daniel and our fellow skiers. “I’m trying!” I squealed. Frozen and fuming, this experience was quickly climbing the charts of humiliation to rate only second to the time I wet my pants in front of the neighborhood boys in first grade.

“Help me!” I bawled, as a father grabbed his child Heisman trophy-style to avoid a collision.

The lift came to a screeching halt. Using herculean force, I heaved myself toward my bindings. “Damn these gloves,” I muttered, batting madly at the irritating contraption. “Come on!” Brute force suddenly snapped me free, I kicked off the board and belly crawled to safety. Staring at me as if I were an arctic leper, Daniel looked on in horror. “You okay?” he asked.

Okay? Okay? The question was inconceivable, so I said the first thing that came to mind, “I hate snowboarding!”

And that was hour one. I still had to get down the godforsaken mountain.

The world of snowsports is rife with hot doggers, extremists and gorgeous Gisele Bunchen look-a-likes. In short, not my people. I come from the clan of the movie watching, musical theater appreciating, wine tasting, cheese loving folk. You know, the indoor kids. Sure I played sports growing up. Basketball, a little volleyball and what I like to refer to as the “never to be discussed again” shot put and discus years. But that collective resume of physical activities prepared me in no way to strap a five-foot fiberglass sled to my feet.

Sure, while living as an exchange student in Finland I’d tried snowboarding when my class had gone on a skiing field trip, but I was 18, 10 pounds lighter and too lost in translation to say no. Plus, a brief middle school experience with skis had ended in a tangled mess of braces, red frizzy hair and ski poles—the adolescent trifecta of shame. So I followed my Finnish friends down the mountain no questions asked.

Now, age 25, speaking English and highly aware of my recent fitness lethargy, the thought of torpedoing my lanky frame down a mountainside didn’t seem like such a good idea.

Daniel would not be dissuaded, however. He’d been anticipating the first few flakes for the past three months, counting down the hours until he could unpack his new skis, which he’d only had a chance to wear twice, and hit the slopes. I could hardly deny him the chance to engage in snowsports together.

And therein lies the rub—love. That stinking emotion that had gotten me into all kinds of trouble since meeting this man four years prior. There was the time on our first date that we stole an antique desk from an unlocked architecture firm (theft). Then there was the St. Patrick’s Day antics that ended with a kid totaling my car (common negligence). And most recently an attempt to cross back over the Canadian border with a bottle of Havana Rum (Daniel’s favorite) which resulted in a kind of Bonnie and Clyde meets Homeland Security episode (smuggling).

And now this… suicide. I’d spent the better part of four trips to the ski resort so far on the bunny hill. It was time, as Daniel and his cronies kept reminding me, to face the mountain for real. This, frankly, was a pretty legit idea.

Toddlers in skis the size of chopsticks were whizzing past me.

Pride and passion to prove to the man I loved that I wasn’t a pathetic wuss urged me on. So up that fateful chairlift we went. A solid hour-and-a-half later I arrived on my butt at the base of the hill, shimmying inch by inch to the bottom of the run. I’d only fallen five times, my knees were swollen, I was convinced a concussion was looming, and the tears for all my pain stuck frozen to my face. Daniel upright and glowing sailed toward me. “You did it! I’m so proud of you! You made it all the way down the mountain!” he cheered scooping me up into a big hug. I sniffled and looked and him with a weak smile.  Then with complete earnestness, he grabbed my hand and said, “Now let’s go inside, get warm and post your board on Ebay.”

And that’s exactly what we did. •

Kinsey Labberton decided a long time ago that fireside reading with a dirty martini in hand was her kind of winter sport. She currently lives in Burlington, VT, with her dog and husband and is awaiting the thaw. More at kinseylabberton.com.