Remember that Christmas movie with the kid who wants the pellet gun? Growing up in Colorado, skiing was always my "Red Rider" air rifle. I had a set of friends whose entire families always mysteriously disappeared for days at a time during the snowy months. Oh, how I desired to see the same magical things they saw! To have revealed the strange code of "green" and "blue" and "black" and "diamonds." I finally asked my mother if I could go along on the next trip.

"No. You'll break your leg."

Alas! Thinking that if my mother would not help me, my father would surely understand why I needed to go skiing. His thoughts?

"What? You'll break your leg."

Oh the agony! Then, one by one, all of my Colorado grown relatives joined in chanting a unified chorus: "You'll break your leg! You'll break your leg! You can't ever go skiing!"

So, I'd be lying if I said I had never been skiing. I have been skiing. Once. My sophomore year of college. I decided to wildly rebel against my parents and go skiing. In Colorado. Go figure.

It was a chilly early morning in November when I left for Winter Park resort. I was so excited, I could barely contain myself. I was finally going to learn to ski.