It's a Slippery Slope. . .
It was a slippery slope this morning, both literally and figuratively. That second hill today at Boston Mills Ski Resort, where I found myself, rather unwillingly, skiing. And the bad attitude that grabbed hold of me this morning which would not let go (or was it I who would not let it go?) The ski hill was named Buttermilk, and I might have been named "Christy of the Temper Tantrum" which would have been fine if I had been a toddler, but alas, I am 42.
Allow me to start from the beginning.
These past 12 months have been a time period when I have stepped out of my box. And, because it bears repeating, I mean this both literally and figuratively. Figuratively in that I am not actually in a box, and literally, because all of the things I am trying have involved taking steps. Literal steps over different types of terrain. I have snowshoed and I have skied, both more than once, both on purpose, both outdoors. I have hiked trails in the summer, fall and winter and enjoyed it immensely. I have purchased equipment, borrowed equipment (thank you, Peg!), signed up for lessons, and pushed myself to limits I didn't know existed, and I have done it joyfully and without hesitation.
Until this morning, but I'll get to that in a minute.
Over the course of a rather loud and outspoken 42 years, I have established, accidentally on purpose, the reputation of being an indoor girl. I do silly things like wear tiaras and deem myself a princess, and I claim to not know much about the great outdoors. I like make-up, shopping and shoes. But the truth of the matter is this: I love being outside. I love the sky, the wind, the water and the snow. I love the sunset and the sunrise, and I love lakes, ponds, oceans and sand. I love hot sun and cold air. I love being in the water and on boats. I love water skiing. I love walking, hiking and sitting outside until the sun goes down. I have tried running, and so far, I don't really love that, but I did enjoy the journey of figuring it out, outside.
Today was my 3rd ski lesson with my friends Lisa and Peg in a series called "Women's Snow Discovery," and it's been wonderful. I've surprised even myself with my Peekaboo Street-ish skills and my natural whooshing abilities. I have fallen twice, both times at the top of the chairlift, and today, it wasn't really even a fall. It was more of a "I have to sit down right at this particular second as I am exiting the lift because I am obviously so very tired." But I have not fallen while skiing, even though my father, who knows me as a girl who can fall flat on her face while walking across and empty room with no obstacles, cannot seem to grasp me as a girl who can ski effortlessly down a mountain, ski poles at my sides, blades parallel, wind in face. Not falling. Not once.
Okay, perhaps I've painted a more beautiful ski picture of myself than was actually true, and perhaps "mountain" is a bit of a stretch, but it is my blog, so allow me to continue. . . for I haven't told you about the tantrum.
It started with a text from my friend Cindy, asking what time she should meet us for skiing after the lesson.
Skiing after the lesson? I had no intention of doing THAT. I'm taking lessons. I can get through the 10:00 to 11:30 time period, swhoosh a little, whoosh a little, and then it's onto the lodge for boots off and diet Coke ON. There will be no skiing. Not now, maybe not ever. One thing at a time.
I text back. "I'm not skiing, I'm lessoning and lunching." I text this to all involved. No answer. I text again.
"Why isn't anyone listening to me???"
I pick up Lisa, load her skis in the car, and pout and sulk all the way to Boston Mills. My anxiety is buliding.
"I'm not skiing today."
"Of course you're not," she says.
"I'm just taking a lesson. That's all I can do. It's all I want to do. I'm a baby skier. I'm not kidding."
"Okay, baby." She is petting me on the arm. Maybe I am a toddler.
The lesson ensues, and it's a good one. As we make our way down the hill the last time, I see Peg and Cindy waiting in their skis. Why do they have skis on for lunch?
Lisa points me toward the chair lift. "Up we go," she says.
I am angry. But with two friends behind me on skis, I can't make a graceful exit.
We ski for an hour. Peg and Cindy go first each time, and wait at the bottom to clap and cheer, and tell me they can't believe how good I am, but really I think they are mostly just blocking my way to the lodge. Lisa is behind me on the hill every time. She is singing Run DMC, Madonna, and all things to make me laugh. I ride the chairlift at least once with each of them, and it doesn't escape me that they are all giving me good tips, good ideas, and good support. Support, literally and figuratively, for each of them had an arm on me at least once that day, for a pat, a high five, a fist pump, a hug. None are patronizing. All are meaningful.
There came a point in the day when I had to think about why I was cranky, and stop that particular slide down the slippery slope. I know was scared of falling while exiting the chairlift, but I mastered it, kind of, once with each friend guiding me off the chair and onto the snow. I know I didn't want to hold back my skiing friends in case I wasn't ready to go forward down that bigger hill. But friends don't feel held back —friends stay with you where you are. And I know I didn't want to feel like I was being pushed when I wasn't ready. But I was more than ready, and I didn't recognize it because it was out of my box. When I step into a different box, I need to be open to others who know that box better than I do. Yes, I was more than ready.
"You're a natural," said Cindy.
I'm a natural?
Cindy is a true athlete. I'm going to carry her words with me for a long time. And, truth be told, I kind of knew I would be able to keep my balance on the hill. With the wind in my face and my friends at my back, how could I fall?
Let the power of the living God work through you and savor those moments when He lets you know you've made a difference!
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