There have been many times in my life when I fell, completely embarrassing myself in the process.

Every little kid falls, scraping elbows and knees, but not all land in such a way that her skirt flies up to her hips, exposing panties. I did that too many times to count.

One of my worst falls as an adult was on a skiing trip.

To begin with, I knew nothing about the sport, and since I don’t like being cold, intentionally going to a ski resort was the last thing I thought I’d ever try. I’d seen skiing on television, but never pictured myself barreling down a snow-covered slope with boards strapped to my feet. And to get there? I’d have to swing on a questionable-looking chair as it steadily climbed up the mountain. Not for me with my fear of heights.

But when I was home during the summer, I was bored and signed up for a class at the local community college. The purpose was to learn about skiing, but also to plan a trip. At no point was proper clothing discussed. Perhaps the instructor thought all of us had the right clothes, or would buy the right clothes. (I didn’t know you could rent those things!)

Anyway, I owned nothing that would keep a person warm in freezing temperatures. Why should I? I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area where we think it’s cold if the temperature drops below sixty.

Using the list provided, I went shopping. I was a poor college student from a low-income family. My parents couldn’t help, and I had limited funds. As soon as I began searching, I realized I couldn’t purchase suitable anything. The one thing I could afford was a pair of supposedly insulated rubber boots. I would have to make do with what I had.

On the designated Saturday, just before sunrise, I climbed aboard a yellow school bus, excited, yet at the same time terrified. I knew no one on the trip, so while excited conversation swirled around me, I was all alone. My only occupation was allowing my mind to drift as I stared out the window.

Shortly after the bus began to climb, the temperature inside the bus changed. It had gotten colder. When snow appeared along the side of the highway, my feet started tingling and my fingers stiffened. I wriggled them as best I could, but nothing helped.

Somewhere along the road we stopped for a bathroom break. The rustic building had no heat, the wooden toilet “seat” was frozen, and even when given time to walk about, I only got colder. I was miserable.

It was then that I realized that nothing I wore was sufficient for the trip.

Our bus went straight to a ski slope. Many of the passengers headed inside a nice, warm building where they rented equipment. I lacked such funds: couldn’t even rent a toboggan.

Everyone else took off amid excited conversation.

While I left the warmth of the building to brave walking about one my own. I loved the pure white snow, reminiscent of my younger days in Ohio. I smiled when I saw footprints, wondering what animal had made them.

When I got too cold, I discovered a lodge. I wanted something warm, but had no money, so I spent my time drooling over the hot chocolate others were drinking.

It was such a lonely, miserable existence, that I thought I’d never try it again, So, why did I? Because young adults don’t often remember misery.

A year or so later, some work friends convinced me that I’d really like to learn to ski. By now I had enough money to buy appropriate clothing. Not high-end, but sufficient. I figured I’d rent the rest of my equipment.

The drive was uneventful. We talked and laughed and as the miles sped by. My friends excitedly talked about what a perfect day it was, how blue the sky would be, how there was plenty of snow and musing that it wasn’t too cold.

They were right about almost everything. The one exception: they knew how to ski and I didn’t.

They gave me some basic instructions, showing me how to grab the rope to go up the bunny slope. Once at the top, they made sure I let go. Then they demonstrated some basic moves, such as to put my skis in a V-shape in to turn, slow down, and stop.

They went down the slope with me, once. Then disappeared.

I did pretty well. I learn quickly, I’m coordinated, and thought I had mastered the basics.

After a few trips down the bunny slope, I moved to the easiest chair lift. Getting on a chair while wearing skis is not easy. There’s a lot of timing involved. You’ve got to get into position as soon as the chair gets to the post. Then look over your shoulder while reaching for the bar. Then scoot onto the seat while the chair is moving.

The first time my butt had barely touched the boards and I was trying to hold tight to the side bars, feeling as if I was just a second away from falling off the moving chair.

The next time I did better, and each time after that it was a little bit easier.

The major problem was that my friends had not explained how to get off at the top of the lift. The first time up, I watched what others did.

It seems as if the idea was, that while the chair is moving, and as it gets lower to the ground, you jump off and ski out of the way before the seat bumps you in the back. When my turn came, that first time up, I managed to get off, but felt the the chair brush the back of my legs.

Each time, I got a little better, learning to position my skis in the direction I needed to go in order to get out of the way of the passengers on the next chair.

Each time I made it down the slope, I felt pride growing inside. And as I glided toward the waiting line, slowing ever so slowly. I felt a degree of pride.

I went back up, over and over, handling getting on and off. Skiing down.

But this time, with my skis in the v-shape, something went wrong.

I didn’t slow down. I saw myself getting closer to the waiting line, and not slowing down. I dug in my edges, and I still kept going. I’m sure my eyes got wider when I realized I was going to crash into the back of the kid at the end of the line.

I dug in even harder. I slide forward. I was helpless and knew it. There was nothing I could do to prevent hitting the kid. I bumped into his back, nearly knocking him down. I fell backwards, landing on my tailbone, feeling an excruciatingly painful crack.

The kid turned to me, all eight years of him, and said as he put his skis into that elusive V, “Lady, you stop like this.”

I was both humiliated and in such deep pain that I couldn’t get up. I was ever so grateful when a woman reached down and pulled me up. She brushed the snow off my back and asked if I was okay.

I wasn’t. I hurt so bad that even breathing caused excruciating pain. I managed to slide over to a sideways log, thinking that if I just sat for a bit, all would be well.

 Bad idea. It didn’t work. Somehow, I removed my skis and mincingly walked them back to the rental shop. Once the skis and boots were gone, I decided to get warm inside the lodge. There were steps! When I finally got inside and I found a chair, I gingerly allowed myself to lower into the sear, but, oh, the pain!

The drive home was terrible. My tailbone hurt so bad that I had to lay down in the backseat of a VW bug. Not comfortable.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Between the intense pain and the recalled embarrassment of crashing into the boy, there was no chance of sleep.

The next day I went to work, but saw a doctor at the end of my shift. Nothing was broken, but I was badly bruised. I was given a blow-up pillow to sit on until it healed.

Despite that disaster, I did eventually ski again. I was never a pro, but I also never crashed into anyone again.

The lesson that I learned through all this is that sometimes it’s better to fall before you think you are going to hit someone.

This applies to all facets of life. Fall while you still have the strength of character to pull yourself up, brush yourself off and try again.