Conquering old fears: Leaving the bunny hill behind

Last weekend, I experienced the exhilaration of conquering a three-decade fear
when I left the bunny hill behind, rode the chair lift and skied down a big hill.
Yes, I fell. Multiple times. But I got up again and kept going.

Has a terrifying experience while trying something new paralyzed you from getting "back on the horse?"

At age 19, I had a frightening first experience on a ski slope that kept me from alpine skiing for 34 years. Apparently, I'm not the first woman who has been dragged up a ski lift by a well-meaning boyfriend without first having a lesson on the basics. I didn't know how to turn, slow down or stop.

However, I did know how to scream at a decibel level that registered in the next county. After nearly tumbling off the ski lift, I fell all the way down the mountain, screaming in terror. My sister, Judy, was working outside in the ski resort's restaurant that day and recognized my scream echoing from the top of the mountain all the way down to the lodge.

That horrific experience kept me from the slopes for 34 years.

Last winter, Kirby, a certified ski instructor and my significant other, taught me to snowplow, turn, stop, control my speed. On the itty-bitty hill, he skied backward in front of me, coaxing me down the hill. On the way back up, I rode the magic carpet lift with the other beginners, all younger than me by decades.

Next, I rode up the handle tow and snowplowed slowly down the bunny hill. Again, Kirby skied backward in front of me, encouraging me all the way down. After several runs, he asked if I was ready for the chair lift, but I wasn't. That fear of falling still gripped me. I skied the bunny hill all weekend.

This ski season, I was determined to conquer my fear. Kirby told me people don't fall off the chair lift. But I'm accomplished at falling. If anyone could fall off the chair lift, it would be me.

After I made two successful runs down the bunny hill, Kirby asked if I was ready for the chair lift. I gulped, but nodded. I knew I had to face my fear. As we skied toward the chair lift, I boosted my confidence with positive self-talk: "You are a Mighty Woman dragon boat paddler. You've done zip lining, stand up paddle board and belly dancing. You can do this."

Kirby coached me on how to hold my poles in one hand, grab the chair lift with the other hand and sit down. I had a klutzy nanosecond and accidentally dropped one of my poles. But the snowboarder behind us picked up my pole and took it to the top of the lift for me.

As we approached the point to get off the chair lift, Kirby calmly coached me again: "Stand up, go into a snowplow and ski to the right."

Although my heart was beating wildly, I did it--and I didn't fall!

Kirby took me down the easiest run, coaching me down the mountain. For the most part, I did OK, snowplowing extremely slowly in a wide zig-zag. But when skiers and snowboarders began zipping around me, I panicked, lost my nerve and fell. Multiple times. I became an expert at getting up.

But then I reminded myself: "You've got this! You're the girl with the dragon tattoo! You can do this."

That positive self-talk--and knowing how to control my skis--made all the difference. So did Kirby's calm encouragement. On the second day, I even did some parallel turns.

Then my legs got tired and I started falling again. On my last run of the weekend, we went down a hill that ended with a fast, straight stretch all the way down to the lodge.

In reality, I wasn't skiing that fast, but to me, it seemed I was zooming down the mountain. The best part was that I felt in complete control--and I didn't scream or fall. But I'm sure I smiled.

Next year, I'm going to parallel ski all the way down the mountain.

Moving, zombies and the unfortunate raspberry sorbet incident

            Zombies invaded Portland last October. I witnessed it--and survived.

I'll tell you a little secret: Zombies scare me spitless.

Are you with me on this? Or are you one of those people who is not creeped out by zombies?

You know that supposedly hilarious British zombie movie, "Shaun of the Dead?" To most people, it's a classic zombie comedy. To me, "zombie comedy" is an oxymoron. When the zombie action got too intense, I ran around breathing heavily. I screamed. Multiple times. Zombies are seriously scary.

Moving is scary too. And it's hard, hard labor. I ought to know. I'm the maven of moving. The diva of downsizing. The cheerleader for change. I get Frequent Mover Miles from U-Haul.


Recently my landlord raised my rent, pricing me out of the rental he refused to maintain or upgrade. So I moved rather than live through another stifling summer in that sauna. Thankfully, I had the help of many friends, my daughter, and this time--professional movers--to accomplish the move on a sweltering summer day.

The day after moving day, cleanup day, was even hotter. With my security deposit at stake, my dear friend, Holly, and I spent hours scrubbing in that hot-as-Hades duplex. As a treat, I'd bought a pint of raspberry sorbet to eat when we finished. I'd scrubbed the fridge and stuck the sorbet in the freezer. The unplugged freezer. And forgot about it.


I was wearing my Moving Pants, light khaki cargo pants with big pockets, and plenty of them. Moving Pants are essential on both moving day and cleanup day for keeping track of all the last-minute stuff I ran across: the key to the new apartment. The hardware to assemble my bed. The missing knob from a dresser. By the end of the day, the pockets of my Moving Pants were stuffed with essential odds and ends I'd need at the new place.

With much shoving and prodding, I crammed into my Subaru the last load: vacuum cleaner, broom, mop, bucket and household stuff, a strawberry pot and yard stuff that was left. It didn't all fit. Dear Holly took a load in her van. I'd pick it up later. 

Then I remembered my raspberry sorbet. I retrieved it from the unplugged freezer. It was liquid sorbet. I didn't have a garbage bag and the garbage to the dump already had been picked up. I'd have to take it with me. Holding the melted sorbet in one hand, I gingerly climbed into the packed car and looked for a secure place for it. I set it down next to me, atop a stack of stuff. Dumb, I know.

I started the car, rounded the first corner, and SPLAT! The sorbet container tipped, and melted sorbet cascaded onto my khaki pants, spreading a dark red stain, much like blood.

Arriving at my new place, Wisteria Cottage, in a very nice suburban neighborhood, I got out of the car. My tan Moving Pants were soaked in what appeared to be blood. I must have been a sight for the well-heeled neighbors, who undoubtedly were watching from behind their curtains, aghast that an unkempt murderess was moving into the neighborhood.

A few nights later, I was eating dinner with my daughter and her boyfriend, who live next door to the cottage. I was just beginning to know the tempo of life at Wisteria Cottage, which had no bathroom. I had to brave the elements, even in the dark of night, to use the facilities next door in my daughter's house.

"Do you like zombie movies?" Casey asked me, popping a movie into the DVD player.

"Not really," I said. "Zombies are scary."

"No, this is 'Zombieland,' a funny zombie movie," he said.

"Uh-huh. Right."

It started. I tensed up. I flinched. And it was only the opening credits. I bravely watched seven minutes of the movie until I could take no more and excused myself from the scary zombie comedy, and walked briskly to Wisteria Cottage.

That night, when nature called, I willed myself NOT to think about zombies. Zombies in the dark yard, just waiting for a middle-aged maven of moving on a midnight pilgrimage to the bathroom to wander unsuspecting into bloodthirsty zombies.I ran to the bathroom that night. If any zombies were lurking about the yard, they couldn't catch me.

But I made a vow that moonless night: No more zombie movies for me.