"Michele, you've got to be kidding me!" I'm trapped. I can't move. And my best friend is laughing at me.

"C'mon Christine, you can do this. It's going to be fun."

"No, it's not. It's going to be torture. A cold, painful torture that ends with me in a body cast."

"You said you'd try new things this year. Isn't this number one on your list? This is what you need to bring you out of your shell. It will be good for you. Think of it as an item you can check off your list."

"My shell is just fine. I don't see how throwing myself down a mountain in sub-zero temperatures can possibly be good for me." But she knows she's got me. I'm a list maker, and nothing makes me happier than checking things off my lists.

Michele snaps her boot buckles and stands up. She looks like the perfect snow bunny, all cute and adorable in her snow pants and coordinating sweater. Her blond curls cascade perfectly down her shoulders, and no hat will flatten them or make her look bedraggled.

I look bedraggled before I even start. My hair is a dull, coppery brown. I can't call it red, and it's not regular brown. The closest description I can come up with is an old penny. It's straight. Like pin straight. And even attempts at perming have not been successful. Hot curlers, curling irons—nothing. Pin straight and boring.

Just like me.

"When I said new things, I meant maybe cutting my hair or getting highlights put in," I mutter, trying to buckle my boot. The layers of clothes are constricting, and I'm having trouble breathing bent over like this. The buckle finally snaps shut, and I return upright, only to find myself out of breath and lightheaded.

Not off to the most auspicious of starts.

I've got a bad feeling about this.

Michele, who grew up skiing, is itching to get out on the slopes. Despite the fact that I've lived in Upstate New York my whole life, I've somehow managed to avoid this particular form of torture thus far. I've signed up for a lesson and am starting a novena that I don't die on the chairlift.

I pick up my skis from the rental shop and awkwardly carry them outside. We find Michele's skis on the rack, and in a few swift moments hers are donned and she's ready to swoosh off. I'm still trying to figure it out. Michele lets out an exasperated sigh and pops her ski off. She goes through the process again, step-by-step. Finally, I have my skis on.

Except now I can't move. She uses her pole to point to where I have to go and she's off, gliding on the snow like a figure skater.

Do you know how freakin' hard it is to move on skis when you're not on a hill? Or worse, when you have to go uphill? Not to mention that in order to fit my 5'10" (Okay, 5'10 ¾". Fine. I'm 5'11") frame, my skis are the length of Delaware.

I'm exhausted by the time I get to the ski group. But then the embarrassment continues. I'm the only adult in the group. This is so not worth it. Checking one stupid item (try something new) off my resolution list is not worth it.