Learning to ski at my age adds worries that someone of a younger ilk might not have. As the days grew nearer to hitting the slopes, my nights grew longer and filled with apprehensive dreams. What if I plummeted off a cliff, broke my hip and died weeks later from "complications"? What if I took a blow to the back of my head with one of those chairlift thingys and ended up like an amnesia-riddled soap opera person? What if I end up like Sonny Bono and that horrible tree? What if?

But as a committed GypsyNester, it is my duty to step out of my comfort zone and go for the glory with guts AND gusto. I continually need to remind myself when I start "what if-ing" that huge majority of the "ifs" turn out just fine, usually excellently. Besides, my affairs are in order, my kids are grown and have burden-proofed my life. The world will go on without me. So, by golly, I'm going for it.

I wasn't subjected to snow while growing up in the desert so I'm ignorant in its ways. Exotic words like "packed" and "powder" were being flung about by the giddy skiers surrounding me and I found it very infectious. So with a smile on my face, on a beautiful sunny day, David and I charged the mountain.

David helped me into the daunting ski equipment like he was dressing a two year old, complete with runny nose. I was horrifyingly inept. The boots alone were very complicated buggers. They are foot prisons of inflexible plastic or some equally brutal space age polymer that doesn't exist in nature. For maximum support, the boot must be strapped on tight enough for the feet to go numb and the legs to become tingly.

Properly booted up, I was forced to relearn to walk. Add in two pairs of pants, four layers on top, scarf, hat and gloves -- I looked like a freakin' starfish, but with much less mobility. It really was quite humorous.

Until I got to the stairs.

It was as if my feet were nailed to the boards. I tried lifting my leg up with my arms, then attempted to move crablike, even doubled myself over the handrail -- to no avail. My foot would not raise enough to mount a single step. But -- if I am one thing, that thing is resourceful. For the remainder of our stay I ascended the stairs back-end first.

My intention was to first take a lesson, enabling the Colorado-raised David to get his gazelle-like self straight to the slopes without having The Old Ball and Chain literally be a ball and chain. Unfortunately, an instructor wasn't immediately available, so we hit the Bunny Slope.

David, once again, patiently geared me up. He listened to my lame jokes disguised as self-deprecation as he bestowed Bunny Slope survival tactics. Time and time again I misdirect where my feet needed to go and sent skis flying. The man is a saint.

Good thing I was determined to master skiing, because the rope tow about killed me. Looking back, I would have dodged this step completely. They are not made for anybody with a center of gravity higher than Minnie Mouse. It was beautiful -- my stiff starfish self being dragged by a rope on a slippery surface while flailing forward and back like a flounder. Oh -- add waving ski poles to the mix. But I didn't fall, so that was a plus.

Standing on top on the mountain erroneously called a Bunny Slope, David coached me in the art of snowplowing and edge digging and pointed me down. The tightness, binding and bulkiness of my boots disappeared when put to proper use. I successfully skied that horrifically steep and challenging Bunny Slope without wiping out.

Jules, my ski instructor, met us by the foot of the hill. Feeling my oats (and wanting to show off), I waddled over the flat expanse between she and I. And fell at her feet. Seriously, I was just standing there. After what seemed like ten mortifying minutes and assistance from both David and Jules, I was at long last hoisted upright. Not boding well for the chair lift, which was lesson number one.

As I previously mentioned, the chair lift -- getting off of it mostly -- was the stuff of my nightmares. I soon realized that just sitting in one happened to be as off-putting. Living in a world with mandatory seat belt laws, it was very unnerving to be three miles above the unforgiving ground with absolutely nothing to hold me in. To take my mind off things, I chatted up Jules.

If one looked up "outdoorsy type" in the dictionary, Jules would be front and center. She ski instructs in the winter, white water raft guides in the summer. She explained how she just showed up in this town, got the teaching job, then went to a church and asked if anyone had a room to rent. She is now living with the pastor and his wife and has leftovers from their dinners waiting for her every night.

Next thing I knew, we were at end of the line. Holding my ski poles (what the heck are ski poles for?) in one hand as Jules instructed, I used my other to push off. With a little squeal I left the chair and made it down the little incline in one piece. As soon as I came to a stop I turned to flash a triumphant grin at Jules and fell on my ass. Jeez.

Grinning wipeouts aside, Jules decided I was ready for Jelly Bean Hill and Candy Cane Lane. Daunting stuff, this. I whizzed through like a pro. I felt like Suzy Chapstick with the wind blowing through my honey blond hair -- mall bangs and all. No longer was I afraid of the Dr. Seuss-character-types on snowboards zooming by from above. I was on fire. Jelly Bean Hill, I own you!

Having done her job, Jules handed me back into the capable hands of David. This time I was unquestionably vertical. David, who had been skiing trails with names like Big Cajones and Black Diamond Death Bowl, urged me to try the harder slopes. The really tough ones, like the semi-dreaded Licorice Gum Drop Mountain.

I relented, and after showing off my chair lift prowess, went to the edge of the slope. If my boots weren't so tight, my knees would have buckled at the sight of the steepness -- this was one mother of a Gum Drop. I refused to budge. David changed his tactics - slyly sliding from coddling to out-and-out mocking - until I bit my lip, closed my eyes and dug in, hoping to plow my way down the mountain straight sideways.

Nope, too steep. I just barreled down sideways. Not having covered this special kind of stupidity in my lessons, I did what came natural - I freaked out. Ridding myself of my poles seemed logical, since I still had no clue why I had been carrying them around all day, I laid out sidelong in the snow hoping to stem the velocity of the slide. It did, but not all that well. My full-body sprawl finally skidded me to a stop twenty feet below my poles.

"Now you lost your poles, you dumbass." was the next thing I heard, "I'm going to have to climb up there and get them."

David insists that the "you dumbass" wasn't actually included in the statement. I'm inclined to believe him. We'll just call it "dumbass implied" and leave it there.

Not cottoning to being called a dumbass, implied or otherwise, I was not about to let David come riding to the rescue. The gauntlet had been dropped. Broken glass could be poured between the poles and me -- I was getting them myself.

Incidentally, it's less problematic to right yourself when you are on a steep hill, so I had that going for me. Using my ski's edges, my left hip and my shredded dignity, I managed to worm my way to the mislaid poles. I soldiered on to conquer the Gum Drop. Multiple times.

Now that I've mastered the kiddy slopes, I feel there may be hope for me on skis. It really IS fun to zoom around on the white stuff. This is why people do it, right? I don't have to be fabulous at it to have a great time. Besides, I'm beginning to get the hang of a nice glass of red wine by a roaring fire. I've earned it.

Maybe I'll even stick around long enough to find out what the poles are for.

Veronica, GypsyNester.com