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A series of essential advice.
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The first time I tried to ski was a catastrophe. I’ve always been unathletic and clumsy, the kind of person who hates being cold, hates waking up early, hates going fast, hates excessive gear, and generally has a bad attitude. Nonetheless, for reasons of infatuation, at thirty years old I lied about being a skier and accompanied my new boyfriend on a trip to Vermont, where I found myself, at 9 a.m., clutching my poles, frozen in terror, at the base of a mountain called the Beast.
I couldn’t latch the skis onto my boots without falling. I couldn’t climb onto the ski lift without falling, or glide three feet without falling. I wobbled and collapsed and bonked my helmet, over and over. I have never felt so undignified or so near to grave injury. I panicked and cried. My new boyfriend picked me up, over and over, and eventually it became hilarious. I made it down the bunny slope. I vowed never to do this again.