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I hate skiing

I will never go skiing.

I don’t understand the cult that all skiers are a part of. It’s just as cult-like as Miami’s Greek Life, and it possesses some similarities. Both are always recruiting and trying to tell you it's not hell. People think hell is hot and fiery, I think it’s cold and at the top of a ski slope. 

Allow me to paint the picture of what a fun ski day sounds like to me.

I put on the thickest coats I can find and get in my car. Like an idiot rookie, I put them on before even arriving at the ski resort so immediately I’m like a sweatshop. Apparently, Ohio has mountains, and for some reason, I drive an hour to one of these “mountains.” 

I get out of the car, my sweat dries instantly, and immediately I turn to pellet ice. After paying about $150 for a pass and all my gear, I strap what feels like bear traps to my feet and find myself at the bottom of the slope watching the ever revolving ski chairs.

Skiers have mere seconds to jump onto one of these before it whisks you away to your death. The second I sit in the chair and my feet leave the ground, I realize I really need to pee. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no way off this ride of doom.

And then it happens. I reach the “mountain” top. The dismount from the ever loving death trap chair lift of doom is terrifying because there are only three outcomes, and you have seconds to figure it out. 

1) Jump off and elegantly maneuver out of the way. That never happens. 

2) Jump/fall off and get knocked into the snow by your chair. Head in the snow, you can’t get up because there’s a chair. After chair. After chair. Hitting you in the back as you lie in embarrassment. The chairs never stop. Allegedly there’s one emergency stop button, but if you press it, you get shot on sight. 

And then there’s the third option. 

I wouldn’t wish the third option on my worst enemy. The third option is when you miss the stop and have to ride that thing all the way back down. You ride down looking like  a disappointment, as the other skiers are spitting on you, throwing ice at your head and screaming unrepeatable insults. 

Now let’s say you managed option one or two. Now, because of a mixture of fear and cold, you’re shaking on the top of the mountain and there appears to be only one way down. Your friends are long gone, leaving you next to some 7-year-olds who kick you in the shin before they go down. How do they do this while wearing skis? Don’t ask.

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All you’ve been told is “pizza to stop taco to go.” What does that even mean? You push with your sticks, and you’re going, and you’re picking up speed and you fall. And you’re falling. And you’re falling. Trees are whizzing by. People are laughing. Children are urinating on your dreams. Snow is getting into crevices you didn’t even know existed. 

And then it’s over. 

I’m lying in a snow covered heap at the bottom. I stand up, pick up my skis, and what’s left of my dignity, and beeline to the bathroom. I’ve already defecated my pants at this point, but I figured I should clean myself off. 

Finally, after I put myself together again, I head back towards the death ride of ski chairs. My friends tell me the park is closing, and it’s time to go home. 

As I get to my car, I am wet from the head down due to the mixture of snow, sweat and tears. Before I drive home, I have to put on a brave face and tell my mom I had a great time so she wouldn’t scold me for wasting $150. And that is why I will never go skiing.