"The ski jammed on top of my knee. Pain across my tendons – tendons I didn't know I had and certainly shouldn't feel." This stark moment of physical agony marked the abrupt end of one novice's fleeting fantasy of alpine mastery.
An Unlikely Invitation to the Slopes
My sister's pitch was irresistible: "Twenty hot lesbians in a cabin in the snow." It sounded like a low-budget 1970s adult film plot, yet it successfully lured me, a self-professed bookworm and sauna enthusiast far removed from athletic pursuits, into attempting skiing for the very first time.
Prior to that fateful weekend, skiing existed in my mind as an exclusive pastime for affluent, well-spoken individuals who could effortlessly name-drop resorts like Thredbo and Aspen. Clad in hastily borrowed snow gear and armed with a mantra of "life is for living," I arrived at the mountain to meet this promised group of attractive women and non-binary people. To my delight, the reality matched the hype – they were, without exaggeration, among the most stunning people I had ever encountered.
Overconfidence on the Bunny Slopes
Not being a complete fool, I invested in a brief introductory lesson. The basics of go, turn, and stop seemed deceptively simple. On the gentle beginner's slope, I felt an immediate surge of proficiency. I was zipping down the incline, impatiently urging slower skiers out of my path.
In my mind, I was commanding the mountain – a natural talent, a veritable ski deity, an unstoppable force. Olympic daydreams began to flicker. When the group suggested tackling a more challenging run, I responded with a confident, assured nod. The pulsating beat of Darude's "Sandstorm" provided my internal soundtrack; I was living in a high-energy music video.
The Descent into Chaos and Pain
My bravado evaporated upon realizing the ascent required a lengthy chairlift ride. Crippled by a profound fear of heights, I felt my blood pound and mouth go dry. In a moment of panic, I fished half a prescription muscle relaxant from my pocket and swallowed it as we queued.
Following the others down the new slope, my illusion of competence shattered almost immediately. Wham, bam – I stacked it. A friend, Nay, was quickly at my side. After dusting off and, with assistance, reattaching my skis, I cautiously continued, only to round a corner and confront a terrifyingly steep run. It featured a sheer cliff drop on one side and what appeared to be a near-vertical sheet of ice descending hundreds of metres.
Another fall followed swiftly. From my prone position, Nay's encouraging calls to get up seemed to echo from a great distance. I confessed, "I did take a sedative – for the chairlift." Their stunned response: "You're … stoned?" My admission of "Kinda, yeah" was met with a despairing, "Oh God."
The final, catastrophic fall was the most brutal. A ski twisted violently onto my knee, sending searing pain through tendons I never knew existed. The watching group grimaced in sympathy; any semblance of sexy sporty cosplay had utterly vanished. Nay, beside me again, observed dryly, "I don't think the sedative helped."
The Walk of Humiliation
Defeated, with a throbbing knee and shattered pride, I accepted reality. The imaginary "Sandstorm" had ceased; the club lights were on at 6 a.m. Removing my skis, I embarked on the long, painful trudge down the mountain in just my boots, serenaded by the group's ironic rendition of "She'll Be Coming Down the Mountain." It was the great walk of lesbian humiliation – a stark, physical lesson in humility delivered by the mountain itself.
Yet, in a twist of perverse allure, the experience contained a seed of addiction. Were finances no object, I suspect I would return every weekend, chasing both the camaraderie and the brutal, enlightening challenge.
