It gets better.

This week's riding lesson rocked. I went in anxious - it was icy - but there were no tears, just some unnecessary verbal diarrhea about how scared I was. (Thank you, L and G, for indulging that process. I'm gonna try to keep it silent next week.) And then I felt fine.

Above: (L) In the car on the ride down; (R)    On the lift before the 3rd run

This being the 5th class, I am more than halfway done, and though I probably would have said something different at 9:45 am this morning, I'm pretty bummed my Saturday days at Smuggs this season are numbered. Also, being on the "back 4" of this 8 week session, I feel now is a good time to capture some of the things I've learned thus far:

1. Third run's a charm. Run #1, I'm remembering which edge is my toe side (kidding, but only slightly) and stressing that I won't be able to stop. Run #2, I'm worrying that the people around me won't be able to stop and will crash into me. Run #3, things are clicking, my turns are connecting smoothly (mostly) and I'm actually enjoying myself.

2. You can, and should, breathe while riding. I just learned this today. Game changer.

3. Every pair of Burton gloves has a soft spot that superbly absorbs snot. Game saver.

Pretty sure I'm going to make a midweek night ride happen this week. Yeah!

I am not the most relaxed [fill in the blank]

"I'm not going to cry today, Mama," Kai told me matter-of-factly en route to the mountain. "I'm just going to give you a GREAT. BIG. HUG." Context: Last week, Kai cried—sobbed—when we dropped him off at his snowboarding lessons. And then he was fine. 

Keeping his word, Kai did not cry. He hugged, great-big-style, just like he promised. And, then, from what I hear, Kai, age 3, proceeded to "kill it" on the hill. He rode down Sir Henry all by himself. With the five-year-olds. Julian, age 5, did not cry either. He gave me a hug and stoically waved me away. And then went on to connect S turns. First time. Fab day.

Tonight, gold-medal-guy Sage was called the "most relaxed competitor" in the Slopestyle.
Today, I earned the title of "most high-strung rider" at Smugg's.
#superlatives

Today, I cried - after dropping myself off at my snowboarding lesson. Last week had gone fairly well but I'd caught some edges and bruised my tailbone. All week, anytime I moved the wrong way, tailbone tenderness reminded me of my hard falls—and the UVM student who fatally crashed skiing at a different mountain on the same day. I worked myself up, bigtime. Adding to this was the fact Jon was staying in town to guest-lecture in a friend's class, so the responsibility of driving the boys to the mountain was all mine. Which also made me anxious. I convinced myself I didn't know how to get there (!!!) and actually GPS-ed the route (which seems completely ridiculous as I write it now).
Again, the boys' drop-off was entirely uneventful. Regardless, my anxiety continued to rise. To the point at which, after I left the little guys, I shut myself in my minivan and blasted songs like A-Punk and Oxford Comma in an attempt to calm the fuck down. It worked a little. It was time to go to my lesson. So I went. And then my instructor announced that since we'd been "rockstars" last week, we were heading straight to the lift and she was going to "push us." I protested. Weakly. She reiterated that we were ready to be pushed.

And that's when I started shedding tears and listing all the reasons I was scared shitless to "shred" on this day. I don't remember exactly what she said but it turned out to be the right stuff. My riding partner helped me rally. My tantrum meltdown was done. I was ready. Ready enough.

So we headed straight to the lift. My first few turns were tentative. My legs were super shaky (fear-adrenaline shaky, not tired-muscle trembly) at the end of the first run. But by the end of the day, I was snaking down the mountain and connecting tighter turns. I learned how to hold an edge to steer out of the way of speedy skiiers and a certain burgundy-clad beginner who always seemed to be riding wrecklessly out of control.  I even kept my balance and bantered back when Ben and Brian shouted to me from the lift. Basically, I kept up with my kids today. Physically if not emotionally.

It was a good day. A hard-won good day.

Next week: No tears. Just hugs.

There are dangers I hadn't even considered. (Shocking, really.)

It appeared in my in-box today: a note from Nixle (basically a police plotter-type service intended for paranoid peeps like myself) announcing that a boa constrictor had been found in my old neighborhood, just steps off the path of my old running route. "Crazy shit happening in the old 'hood, huh?" I wrote to Joanne. "OMG. Can you imagine if you'd seen this on your run?" I zipped off to Renee.

Then, about an hour later, I read about two brothers strangled to death, while they slept, by an African rock python.  The coincidence was bizarre.

My heart hurt thinking about those little boys in New Brunswick, each two years ahead of my little guys. Thinking of their parents. Holy awful shit.

I'm afraid of everything: Great Whites off the coast of the Cape, busy highways, fast-moving traffic. I worry about fluke falls and calm waters that might seduce a confident preschooler into sneaking off for a solo swim. I fear I wouldn't do the right thing if I crossed a bear in the woods with my kid. I worry when I hear how loud the clunk is when an apple drops down from high branches onto my deck. Should we chop down the tree? Surely I hit like that would really hurt a little head. It could even... You never know when danger will descend.

Today's tragic story of the python and the sleeping boys didn't  stoke a fear of snakes (that's actually pretty low on my list). But it did suggest that there are dangers I haven't even thought of yet, something I hardly thought was possible. Good lord.

"Go time" is a good time ...

... when you prepare as best you can, bring all you've got and convince yourself that what you're showing up with is more than enough. If you tell yourself you're going to rock it (whatever it is), there's a good chance you will. Or maybe you won't... but at least the process won't be so painful. In fact, it's likely to be pretty awesome. 

In a previous life, I spent lots of time and spun lots of wheels trying to make things perfect. I'd study until I'd memorized every fact and anticipated every possible question. I'd revise until I was sure that, having channeled my editor, I answered every one of her/his questions - in the first draft. (Impossible! And I lost much sleep doing it. Better to follow the advice of Anne Lamott: "Shitty first drafts.") I didn't miss classes or rehearsals. I'd taken all of the notes, even recorded lectures. (Um... yup. I was that girl. In grad school at least.) I knew all of the choreography - and helped other peeps with the spacing. When the test began, the draft was submitted, the curtain opened, I pretty much knew how things would go down. 

Anymore, this just isn't an option. I don't have 14 hours a day to work. I skip dance classes because I'm sick - because for the second time this season, the stomach bug has circled through my home. My time is no longer 100% my own, so I often have no choice but to wing "it" (whatever it is). And this often puts me outside of my comfort zone. Thing is, I'm getting cozier out there in the unknown... having had quite a few chances recently to learn that a little prep goes a long way when you combine it with the right perspective. It's forced growth  - and I'm grateful for it. 

About a year ago, I reported a big feature on fear - and overcoming it - and one of the experts I interviewed suggested something something that really stuck: when you start to feel the physical sensations of "nervousness," relabel them as "excitement."  I pulled out this trick twice this week and it worked. For real. The result: less fear, more fun. Fab.