Alpine Crawling

Skiing has always been mixed hat for me-- mostly because I've never picked up the hat to try it on. Few products of Georgia become ski stars, and probably fewer know the difference between sweats and snow pants are or what "good" snowball snow is (these distinctions became painfully aware to me in the collegiate tundra of South Bend).

But, relationships have a funny way of reminding you what you "love to do." Dating someone from Colorado, for instance, makes skiing less a luxury and more a prerequisite to participating in holiday traditions.

Before you judge my people as close-minded GRITS ("Girl Raised In The South," and probably the number two most popular southern bumper sticker to "Obama is a socialist"), I'd like to remind you that I have branched out into winter sports. Cross-country skiing has become one of my favorite any-weather sports, probably because you work so hard you forget it's actually cold outside.

No, it's not the snow that gets me about alpine skiing. It's the speed. I am not one for jumping off cliffs into rocky bodies of water (or any type of water unless it's a swimming pool), skydiving, thrill-seeking, starting my own business, or (sorry impatient passengers) driving over the speed limit. You might call me boring, and you'd be quite right. I take risks in my own way, just ways that prefer to remain anonymous.

So, in my slightly boring, safe world, I haven't exactly been pining to speed down a tree-covered mountain. My only ski updates as a kid were about how Sonny Bono and Michael Kennedy died running into trees, and I would take my chances hiking slowly through them, thank you very much.

Going fast didn't kill me. I skied for the first time this weekend without hitting any trees. I hit my butt pretty hard and took a few hits in my pride, as well, but the trees remained painted on the tranquil backdrop as I whizzed by (okay, slid by).

If you ask me today, post-ski, if I "wanna go fast," I would tell you that I retain my (endearingly?) slow ways, a far cry from Ricky Bobby's drive that propelled him NASCAR fame. Hiking through the peaceful woods beats rushing down a mountain any day-- even if it's too cold for roses that I can stop and smell.