Slippery Slopes

Last Sunday my son and I ended up on a four-seater chairlift in between two friendly, young, large gentlemen dangling snowboards from their left feet. In the course of the short ride up the ski mountain we learned that they were friends and that this was their first day on a snowboard and ski mountain, ever. I asked how it was going so far and they smiled and shook their heads muttering good-naturedly something to the effect of, “So far so good,” followed by a bemused, “How did I get here?” I smiled and chuckled along with them. I was impressed with them for trying something new and told them so. Learning to ski as an adult takes a combination of courage, resolve and a rubber ego. I reminded them to take their time and take breaks as often as they needed to collect themselves if they felt nervous or out of control. I also reminded them that no one would be recording their experience or posting it on Facebook or YouTube and that they should be proud of themselves for trying something new; something out of their comfort zone. “Way out,” was the reply.

About two supports from the end of the ride and the disembark ramp, I also learned that this was their very first time on a chair lift and that the teacher whose lesson they had just finished didn’t tell them how to get off. Oh, I thought as we glided ever closer to our final destination, yikes. “Okay,” I said to my son, “you are going to ski down the ramp and straight ahead as swiftly as possible. Got it?” He nodded. Then I said to the guys, “And you two are going to stand up when we get there and use your right foot-- like Fred Flintstone-- to glide your board across and down the ramp; like a skateboard. If you fall, which you may, just scoot, crawl or roll out of the way as quickly as possible so that the folks coming off behind you don’t crash into you. You, to the right and you to the left. Got it?” They both nodded. Then, at the last minute I added, “You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be just fine.”

And we were. The fellow on my right made it down without a hitch and the guy on the left didn’t fall until he was safely out of the way. My son wasn’t crushed by any of us and we all enjoyed the feeling of grace under pressure and the small triumph that comes with accomplishment; however minor.

I was glad that my son got the chance to see adults trying something new for the first time. I planned to beat him over the head with it the next time I wanted him to try a new food. I thought about what everyone had learned from the experience except for me. I already knew that I had a bossy, take-control side; that was nothing new, and I already knew how to ski and didn’t plan on taking up a humiliating, ego-crushing new sport any time soon.

The next day I went to my first ‘How to Teach Math and Science’ class. I hadn’t been in a science classroom in well over twenty years. Math and I had squared off last year in order to take the GREs, and again last semester in my statistics course, but I can’t say as I’ve missed her since we parted ways. The Cartesian Diver experiment was a great party trick and our professor demonstrated the small ketchup packet sinking and rising again at will within the clear plastic bottle of water with laissez-faire finesse. But how did she do that? I was almost certain it wasn’t telekinesis. Students raised their hands and density was revealed to be the magic afoot. Our professor wrote density equals mass over volume on the white board and I dutifully scribbled the formula into my notebook.

It was a vaguely familiar formula and the tiny trap door that had shut away years of lab partnering and high school formaldehyde cracked open, but just barely. She asked if everyone understood and I nodded reflexively, then she turned to wrap up the class. Across the table a student looked at me and whispered, “Do you?” For some reason I was honest with her even though she was a stranger. “No,” I whispered back. As the rest of the class stood to pack up and the bustle of bodies resumed, I slid around to her side of the table. She went over the concept until it made absolute sense to me. I was grateful for her help-- this was way out of my comfort zone-- and I was glad that I’d had the nerve to be honest with her. I was proud of my small triumph, glad for my rubber ego and very relieved that no one would be posting this moment on YouTube.