My ski lesson went well. I learned how to break skis. Bindings snapped off under my uncoordinated legs.
"It's OK," the instructor said. "That's supposed to happen. Sometimes it keeps you from getting hurt."
"Sometimes?"
He pointed to the plaster cast on his ankle. "Avoid the moguls," he said.
"Real estate moguls? Developers who turn mountains into ski resorts?"
"Nah," he said. "Moguls are mounds of snow. Bumps on the slope."
He repaired my skis and sent me toward a rope that was mysteriously moving up the mountain.
"Stick with the bunny slope," he said.
"Is the bunny named Godzilla?"
My pink-lipped classmates, who were either seasoned skiers or fearless fools, had deserted me and raced for the lift lines to Mounts Denali, Rushmore, and Vesuvius. I shuffled to Godzilla's leash, tucked in my lucky scarf, and grabbed on.
The icy rope slid through my mittens. My frostbitten fingers gripped tighter and harder but to no avail. Fidgety four-year-olds stiffened up behind me. As I turned to apologize, a knot reached my hands and dragged me up the hill with the force of a tidal wave.
It was only fitting that Beach Boys music started blasting out of the speakers in the lodge: "Surfin' USA". Little kids in goofy hats surfed by me on snowboards. Slush swooshed into my face. My nose dripped into my lip balm.
Higher and higher I went up Mount Bunny until I reached the peak from which, theoretically, I would ski down.
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