Going skiing has been a yearly event for me since I was 5. At first glance, it seems like the perfect winter wonderland experience — snow-covered mountains, crisp, fresh air and the thrill of gliding down powdered slopes. In reality, skiing for me was more like an annual “How long can I endure before I freeze solid” challenge.
Every winter, my family and I visited ski resorts like Heavenly, Kirkwood and Northstar. And each year without fail, I became increasingly disenchanted with the whole trip.
First of all, wearing ski clothing is unbearable. I’d have to pile on several layers: thermal long sleeves, insulated pants, a sweater, bib overalls and not just one, but two jackets. I looked like a marshmallow with legs and moved as gracefully as one too.
Then there were my hands. Mittens seemed like the logical choice, but they were about as useful as industrial-strength oven mitts. Gloves weren’t much better — sure, I could actually move my fingers, but they froze within minutes. I often resorted to swapping my gloves with my dad’s, enjoying the residual warmth before my icicle fingers drained it all away.
And don’t even get me started on ski masks. Those were supposed to keep my face warm and protect it from the icy winds, but every couple of hours, the condensation would make it soggy and gross. Breathing through it felt like I was drowning in a swamp of my own making.
Finally, there was the whole feet situation. I wore two (sometimes even three) layers of socks, even cramming those little hand warmers into my boots. Still, my feet went numb within an hour. The worst part was during lunch when I tried to rub my feet back to life. It hurt so bad I genuinely considered accepting my fate of ice cube feet.
To top it off, let’s talk about my skiing ability — or lack thereof. I would nervously wobble down the mountain, chasing after my brother while tiny kids zoomed past me like Olympic champions.
I tend not to enjoy something I’m not naturally good at, so my enthusiasm for skiing started to plummet around the same time my butt started spending more time on the snow than my skis did.
It’s not hard to understand why I hate skiing. While everyone else was chasing thrills down the mountainside, I was just chasing after the thrill of the ski lodge hot chocolate.
