Diamonds Are Not This Girl’s Best Friend
- 3 days ago
- 4 min read
By S.E. Tschritter
The enjoyment of downhill skiing baffles me. Frozen nose, ears and cheeks. Steamed up glasses lenses. Stiff, red fingers. Thighs and toes that sting with the threat of frostbite. Air so cold it knocks the wind out of you. I comprehend the thrill, the feeling of freedom, and of being outdoors. I will never overcome the “cold” piece of that picture. Why would I subject myself to hypothermic shock, when I could cozy up near a fireplace with a mug of hot chocolate and a perfectly good book—a romantic suspense like The Lakeshore’s Secret, perhaps?
Ski Lifts. Nope. One time, when I was a kid, my dad sat beside me on the ski lift, coaching me for the dismount— or whatever you call it.
But I was scared stiff and when it was time to jump off, I didn’t follow him. The ski lift rotated to head back down the slope, and the teenage boy manning the booth popped out of the booth and yanked me out of the chair. By then, dozens of skiers had paused to watch. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my childhood.
Skiing With Eye Glasses? Nope. When I was about ten years old, I was skiing downhill and my glasses fell off. I had to fall intentionally and shift through the powder to retrieve them—without great eyesight—while other skiers whizzed by, barely dodging the awkward pink hazard in the middle of the hill. I don’t pity myself often, but that day I did.
Another time, I skied with our youth group. No one taught me that pointing your skies together helps you slow down. Nor had anyone explained cutting across a slope to slow momentum. On the easier slopes, those skills weren’t as necessary. My three step method was 1.) Point and shoot, 2.) Internally debate whether I was thrilled or terrified, and 3.) Pray no one cut in front of me.
Mostly, I’m much better at solving a problem on my own, rather than listening to boring instructions. So if anyone tried to explain the diamonds’ color significance, I absolutely, completely missed it. So did my friend Mark. Mark and I found ourselves at the top of a black-diamond hill, which was littered with trees. And I didn’t know how to cut back and forth or point my ski tips together—I had nothing in my tool belt that would help me slow down, except knowledge of how to fall. To complicate the situation further, my let’s-turn-back-this-is-a-bad-idea button was damaged in utero. I’ve never had one of those. So, not once did it occur to me that turning around was an option.
Mark and I looked at one another with snowball-sized eyes and then shoved off.
Mmmm. The decline was more freefall then slope. I survived—obviously—but I have no memory whatsoever of the bottom of that run. I locked up tight in the let’s-never-do-this-again corner of my brain, and I have not downhill skied since. Years later, I inadvertently learned skiers have certain methods to slowing down that don’t involve throwing their shoulders into the snow. Huh. It was almost enough to attempt skiing one more time. Almost.
I could have saved myself a lot of grief if I had listened or asked questions. Not all voices are helpful. Not all “wisdom” is informed. So how can we decipher the difference between someone who has no clue what they’re talking about and someone who can save us frustration, time, and money? When garnering advice, we need to consider the source. I won’t ask someone who’s a terrible speller how to spell a word. And if I were one day motivated to downhill ski, my first call would likely be to my friend who lives in the foothills of Glacier National Park, rather than a friend from Texas. We need to ask the expert.
When I eat at a restaurant, if I am debating two dishes on the menu, I ask the waiter for his opinion. He knows what people order. He knows what people like. Oftentimes, the wait staff has tasted the dishes themselves. Therefore, the most informed people in the room, the experts for that particular question, are the wait staff. The experts know what we don’t know we don’t know. Experts see the pitfalls. They’ve learned time-saving hacks. They know what it takes to succeed in their area of expertise because they’ve already done so.
I’ve also learned to pause and ask questions. I doubt I ever will, but if I returned to a ski resort, I’d ask the staff dozens of questions: Which brand creates the warmest clothing? Which goggles stay on your face the best? Which ski hill would you avoid and why? And, last but not least, how do I stop? Our adventure awaits, ladies. The world is ours for the taking, and I’m the last person who will stop you from careening downhill toward your dreams. But this 2026, I challenge you to work smarter, not harder. Find the experts in your life who can prevent unnecessary headaches. Ask questions. “What don’t I know I don’t know?”
Then tip your ski’s over the crest—or turn the next page while sitting by the fire—whichever you prefer. Because your adventure is not just yours for the taking. It’s also your for the choosing.
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