I was suggested by a friend to share this story recently, mostly because it is at once pathetic, illuminating, and hilarious (although not so much if you're me). Let me start by saying that I have never, nor will I ever, play a sport. For anyone to suggest otherwise is to do so at their own risk, and cross their fingers I don't hurt someone, mostly just myself. I am not known for my coordination, my speed, my athletic prowess of any kind. I throw a ball like a girl who was never taught how to throw a ball, and I probably hit the same way; I don't know for certain though, because I'm pretty sure any bat I've ever swung has not actually come into contact with said ball. Gym was the class I most dreaded at any grade, and the day we were able to stop taking it was a day I will cherish forever. Now to be clear, I may hold a few extra pounds that I'm not exactly proud of, however my detest for all things athletic has not been influenced by that. No, I would be uncoordinated and an embarrassment to girls everywhere at any size, age, or weight.
I remember reading once that everyone has a crystalizing experience in an area in which they excel. That's to say that there was specific event, or maybe just a bunch strung together, that solidified a person's interest in something, and that they were good at it. For instance, at some point I probably had a crystalizing experience in music or verbal/written language. However, the opposite is true as well. If there's something you really suck at in life, (math, writing, social interactions) at some point you probably had an experience that embarrassed you, that you failed at, which made you think, "Nope, never doing that again." My deterring experience came in the winter of my 6th grade year.
It all started on a ski trip to Welch Village. I had never skied in my life before this trip. When your parents are from North Carolina, it's probably not on their agenda to teach their daughter how to hurl herself down a snow-covered hill (not that I blame you, M and D. I wouldn't have wanted to anyway). My friends, however, were native Minnesotans, and flew down black diamonds like nobody's business. So when it came time to strap on the skis, those students who had experience could go off on their own. Those of us who were still trying to stay upright with giant pieces of metal strapped to our feet had to pass a little class first. My first inkling that things might not go so well was on the training hill. This wasn't even the bunny hill; it was basically just a snow slip and slide in front of the chalet. It was here I discovered not only could I not keep my feet in whatever stupid shape I was supposed to keep them in, I also could not stop any forward momentum I gained. The ski instructor said "To the ski lifts!" and I blanched.
Getting on the ski lift was not an issue, it was the getting off that posed the greatest problem. That whole stopping thing came into play here, and rather than turn my skis and head to the bunny hill like the rest of the group, I kept going straight. Towards the trees. Luckily, instead crashing into a trunk, gravity took hold and I fell over on my snow-pant cushioned butt. Crisis averted, but how was I supposed to get up? In a scene equal to any teen rom-com you've ever watched, in skied my 6th grade crush. He stopped in front of me with a perfect swish of snow.
"Need some help?" he asked, blue eyes twinkling. He stuck out a ski pole to pull me up. I blushed, grabbed a hold, and he helped me to my feet, but not before I skated over his freshly polished skis.
"What are you doing?!" he cried aghast. I sheepishly apologized, and he slid off into the path, with a look of disgust. Disaster #1: check.
Once I awkwardly maneuvered my way back to the group, the ski instructor told us we were to ski down the bunny hill and she would check us off. One by one, little eleven year olds pushed off and made it down to the bottom, some more successfully than others. By then though, the ski instructor had seen enough of me to realize I was never going to make it down the hill alive. To my horror, she made me grab her waist and ski down with her, as the rest of my classmates looked on from the ski lift above. Tears of humiliation streamed down my face, which is probably a contributing factor as to why I ended the hill with a flourish of me tumbling head over heels. In my head, I remember kids laughing from up above, but it was probably just the amplified embarrassment talking. Luckily, I was uninjured, if you don't count my pride.
I spent the rest of the day hiding behind a book in the chalet, and it was there that I vowed I would never, ever ski again. Not only was that enough of a deterrent for me to pick up a winter sport, it also put me off any kind of sport again. Imagine if I were to join a team event! Where we had to win something! I'd not only lose the game, I'd take everyone out with me. I haven't ever been tempted to play any kind of sport since. I do enjoy dancing, but I figure that's more about musicality than actual coordination. Can I move my hips to the beat? Yes? Ok, then we're good. But the rest of those sports certainly don't come with a soundtrack, and so my probability of epic failure rises quite a bit. The funny thing is, it has all come full circle when, as a teacher, I've had to chaperone the 8th grade ski trip two years in a row. I watch some of the poor souls out on the hill, and want to yell, "I feel your pain, Honey!....But there's no way in hell I'm coming up there to help you!"
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