I climb to the top of the damn mountain- by “climb” I mean stand without a railing on a moving escalator holding on to an inner tube. I get to the top and peer down the suicidal snow hill. A six year old boy hops on his inner tube and flies down the hill fearless as a coyote stealing s’mores from a camp sight.
I let about sixteen more kids by before sitting on my tube. They snare at me with righteous indignation. “Sissy,” they say with their eyes.
I finally sit on my tube- push myself off and wait for the world to fly by like a frightening whirlwind.
And then it happens.
I’m at the bottom- tush wet- still breathing.
I sit there for a moment staring behind me at the tall hill that I just came from. Proud of myself despite my severe fear of heights-
Bite me hill- I got this.
I’m feeling accomplished, bad ass, wickedly courageous till my kid says-
“Mom- you did great- tomorrow we hit the hill on skiis- standing up-”
Just when you think you beat your fear- there it is rising outta nowhere taunting you like a little prissy girl- a little pain in my ass, snooty, hoity- toity arrogant, stuck-up brat.
So am I going skiing tomorrow?