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I can’t believe how much harder this is in real life, I think to myself, at least on the wii fit you can pause and put the heating on. I am halfway down a beginners slope stopped in snowplough position, skis jabbing into the powder as my body shakes like Disney’s worst performance of ‘Bambi on Ice.’ It takes all the strength I have to keep me from sliding down the mountain but I still favour the burn in my thighs over this biting cold. Do you think they’ve ever thought of putting a tuck shop here? I wouldn’t say no to a hot chocolate right now - or a shot of tequila. Further down the mountain I spot my classmates dispersing in haywire directions. Our instructor slices through the middle crying “turn right! turn right!” and I watch as my friend Jo flies left into a flag, pulling it down with her as she falls. Seconds later, a school of children smaller than the skis on their feet shoot past, legs flailing outwards but with toothless grins smeared across their snow dusted faces. I chuckle as Jo splutters from the small snow flurry that has just landed in her open mouth. The brief lapse in concentration causes me to start sliding down the mountain and I quickly jab my poles into the ground to stop myself from moving any further. I can’t do this. I actually can’t do this. My brain feels as fried as the eggs my cousin devoured for breakfast and I try to focus on the other people nearby in an attempt to unscramble my thoughts. Another beginners group are waddling across the mountain above me, piercing the snow with their picks; each stab is a curse to their swollen-headed sister-in-law who promised this trip would be fun - she’s been coming for years, after all. From afar they are a sea of mismatched hand-me-downs, lime green lapels and an extra large ski jacket in a tangerine sheen, a slice of carnival chaos in an otherwise snowy scene. I watch as the teacher points her pole to the sky presenting the chair lift above; not a single one of the riders is wearing a colour outside the primary three: midnight charcoal, ink blot raven, and dazzling onyx. The winter sun bounces off the buckles on their ski boots, making them shimmer as they climb higher and higher. My eyes dart back to my class who have just arrived at the bottom of the mountain. If I squint I can just about make out Jo giving me a feeble thumbs up to check if i’m okay but I’m too petrified of falling down to lift up my sticks and respond. It was the simplest of things. I wasn’t mustering up the courage to jump from some jagged rocks free falling into the breathtaking blue abyss, or letting a friendly stranger guide me on a life-changing trekking experience having met just hours ago - or any other tremendous leap into the unknown that has so often been recounted before - all I had to do was lift up my feet. What if I can’t stop? Has there ever been someone who has just, carried on? Off the mountain and onto the road below? Is it still 'skiing' if you’re going down tarmac? - A small thud interrupts my reverie. A tiny girl on a snowboard has fallen next to my feet, her chestnut coloured braids spattered with frosted pearls as she glances up in my direction, googles knocked sideways. If it weren’t for the fact that I can’t remember what having toes actually feels like, I would be convinced that this were a mirage. But before I can comprehend what is going on, she winks at me and pulls herself back up onto her board, propelling herself down the mountain and shrieking with laughter. I watch her tumble twice more before she reaches the end, picking herself back up each time. I exhale softly, the breath tickling my chin under my scarf - well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out. I lean forward and let myself go.