|My skis right where I wanted them...|
i.e. not on me.
I am not athletic. Sporty things do not come naturally to me. He, on the other hand, slapped on his skis and away he went. Oh sure, he'd had a lesson... once... when he was 14... thirty years ago now. No matter, swish swish swish and off he goes.
Me? I had to be tricked down the hill by my poor, underpaid ski instructor who was forced to ski backwards down the hill. He had to coax me along clinging for dear life to the ski poles he held out in front of him for me to grasp.
Anytime he tried to make me go on my own, I promptly lost control and threw myself to the ground.
Pathetic, I know. The moments I wasn't terrified, I was absolutely humiliated.
When we finally got to the bottom we had to ride the ski lift back up the hill. Only slightly above my fear of stripping slippery sticks to my feet and sliding down a hill to my death is my fear of heights. I whimpered all of the way to the top of the hill and then promptly fell off the ski lift in a heap. They had to stop the lift so I could crawl away in shame.
When my poor instructor made it to the top he slapped on a happy face and said "ready to go again?" I was nice, and thanked him profusely for his time, but told him that there was absolutely no way I was ever doing that again, thank you very much.
My husband tells me I don't communicate well when I don't want to do something. Personally I thought refusing to put my skis on and bursting into tears when the instructor showed up was pretty telling, but men hate subtle.
So, one of my goals this year is to express myself better, even if it's not always easy.