Who Really Likes Skiing Anyway?

I sigh and stumble further up the hill on our way to the ski lift, my legs performing an uncomfortable moonwalk (because there really is no other way on ski boots). My skis are constantly sliding off my shoulders and this results in my mood quickly deteriorating.
My boyfriend offers to carry my skis for me. This warms my cold heart.

Great. A ski break in the French Alps with my boyfriend and friends. Every February, the Amsterdammers head off to the mountains they so obviously lack in their own country. I ditch the office gear for salopettes, cute furry hats, and an awesome red Peak Performance jacket in which I totally look like an Ecole du Ski Francaise teacher.

We have rented a chalet for a week of uncompromised boozing and eating. Guilt free, because of the shameless lies we tell ourselves like: “Skiing is an extreme sport. You have to eat like an athlete.” And “It’s cold out there, your body needs the fuel.”

And so our days are filled with chocolate croissants for breakfast, chicken nuggets and tartiflette for lunch, Twix bars on the slopes, and litres of cheese fondue at night, drowned in an endless stream of gluhwein and après ski beer.

Every morning at eight, my friends jump out of bed and queue up for the shower. They can’t wait to put on their professional gear and “Hit the slopes man!” ready to tackle the icy red and black slopes, preferably with a names like 'le Mur' and 'Tortin'. All to show that while they may be pudding-textured number crunchers in the office, on the slopes they are true cowboys: fearless and conquering nature. I finish my fiber-free, carb-laden baguette, and join them up the mountain.

When the lift carries us to the busy slopes I start feeling uneasy. The sad thing is, I have skied almost all my life, and I will not admit that I hate it. Worse, I find it scary.

I love the idea of skiing, just not the activity itself. The vision of me and my friends wearing cute woolen jumpers in the chalet that was used in the Wham! "Last Christmas" video is the most fun I can ever imagine. My friends and I, laughing, in front of a massive fireplace with a St. Bernards dog wagging his tail. And telling the admiring crowd how I mastered the half pipe in the snow park that day. Haha, that sounds fun! But without me having to put the actual skis on...

May I please just wear my professional Peak Performance jacket to the little ski village? Just hang around with the mountain people, drink a vin chaud, and read magazines?

Alas, I cannot.

The only thing that gets me off the slopes with my credibility intact is a feigned knee injury. Although being Dutch, this is not guaranteed; all Dutch doctors graduated from the 'walk it off' school of medicine and, having been indoctrinated by this Spartan healthcare system for all their laws, my friends are unlikely to be fooled by a bogus knee strain.

One more icy black slope, one visible fracture on an X-ray to prove it, and my holiday begins.