I have a fear of falling. Not of heights, not of crashing into the ground. It’s the act of falling itself that terrifies me. I will place the blame for this squarely on my parents, who always caught me, who never let me me free-fall through space. If I have kids, I’m going to let them sled down the stairs and jump from the swing and try to fly off the roof so they will learn to cope with falling. But I cannot cope with falling and so as a result I just don’t fall. Ever. When going up or down stairs, I always grasp the handrail like a granny and I never take two stairs at a time. I always walk around ice in parking lots. I refuse to go on hikes that involve crossing streams unless there is a sturdy bridge or very wide, strategically placed stepping stones. And yet this weekend, against all reason, Rob and I went skiing.

I will stop here to warn that this post is not family-friendly. We were surrounded by kids all weekend and every time I slipped an expletive, Rob rather sternly reminded me that “this is a family-friendly place.” It’s not like I meant to curse every time a kid passed by, but when I find myself falling, my natural tendency is to scream FUCK! And as you’re about to read, there was sufficient falling. So if you are younger than 5 or are offended by those naughty words that everyone age 5 and up says at least once in awhile, you’d better fucking stop here.

When planning our winter weekend getaway, we did not even consider downhill skiing as that would most certainly involve falling. But cross country skiing seemed safe. I envisioned us skiing a wide, level swath of snow lined by snow-covered evergreens. What I did not know, nor did anyone bother to tell me, is that cross-country ski trails are not wide, level swaths but narrow twisty paths that go up and down hills. UP AND DOWN FUCKING HILLS.

Moreover, skis are slippery little fuckers. Who knew? They are actually designed to slide around on snow. They don’t just lack traction, they have negative traction. So what happens when a person on slippery skis attempts to proceed up a snow-covered hill? That’s right, that person SLIDES BACKWARDS. Actually, it depends on who you are. If you are Rob, you advance up the hill with ease, without even using your fucking poles. If you are me, you stick your poles into the snow behind you, grasp them tightly, lean your weight onto them, and pole-walk yourself up the hill, keeping your momentum because the moment you pause for even a nanosecond, you are SLIDING DOWN THE HILL BACKWARDS. If you are me, you get a toe cramp from clenching your toes in your ski boots in an effort to somehow claw your way up the hill, a toe cramp that must be relieved immediately because it is so fucking excruciating. If you are me, you don’t have the upper body strength to actually pole your way up the hill anyway, and so with shaking elbows and cramping toes there really is nothing left to do but fall over in surrender. However, if you are me, falling is not an option and so you find yourself in a purgatory sort of place where you cannot proceed in any direction. This is where I found myself 5 minutes into our big cross country skiing adventure. How I made it to the top of that hill is a blur. I don’t believe in angels, but I’m pretty sure one swooped down, lifted me up into the air, and then gently set me down atop the hill. All I know is that I found myself at the top, light-headed and gasping for air.

However, the top of the hill is only a slightly better place to be. It is safe if you stand perfectly still. But the only way to get off the hill is to proceed downward. And as I stared down that very small molehill of a hill, the slope looked Olympic-sized. And I knew I would be on the top of that hill forever. Bring me some food and a tarp for shelter, I thought, because I am not leaving this square-foot of safety ever again. I was a whimpering, wide-eyed three year-old with no intention of ever moving. Ever. I stated this conviction to Rob, and the vibration of my voice must have disturbed the snow or something because all of a sudden I was sliding. I shrieked as I realized I was about to go down the fucking hill, and then I did the only thing I could think of to save my life: I sat down. I sat down on my skis and sledded down the hill. (For the record, I highly recommend this method.)

This sufficiently scared the fucking bejesus out of me, so we cut over to the practice loop, which in theory is without hills but in practice is chock full of them. Five toe cramps, six falls, three emotional breakdowns, and hundreds of F-words later, I came to my senses and admitted defeat.

Sipping hot chocolate back at the ski shack, I scolded myself for such idiocy. I am a person who believes one’s feet should be firmly planted beneath oneself. I am a person who cannot relinquish control of anything, a person who will not even get drunk because it requires losing control. I am a person AFRAID OF FALLING. What the fuck was I doing on skis?

(I do need to thank Rob for his patient encouragement and tolerance of my pathetic, neurotic self. And thanks to all the precious ski bunny children for not telling on me for saying fuck.)