FIRST CLASS

Each day starts with Morning Meeting, on the snow at 8:45. Instructors stand in a big circle, with a supervisor at the 12:00 position. The supervisor, who's holding a clipboard of notes, greets us and gives us a quick State Of The Resort: expected crowds, safety concerns, weather conditions, and theme of the day. 

Next, we do a half fun/half humiliating warm-up exercise ("Bring it aroouuund town!"), set to intentionally corny music played from a boom box. 

And finally, the supervisor announces instructor names and assigned class levels. In terms of type of class (semi-private to group lesson) and level (1-9), it seems as though first priority goes to veteran full-timers, and then, in descending order, to veteran part-timers, new full-timers, and new part-timers. Once assigned, each instructor goes to the corresponding designated area, and, for the next 20 minutes, as their students stream in, they greet and sign them in.

On my first day, six of us new part-timers weren't called. Our supervisor asked us go greet guests at the lobby doors until they knew where we were needed most.

At this point I should mention that I'd been up since 5:00 a.m. studying my PSIA handbook, trying to commit to memory the different skills, lifts, terrain, games, and activities appropriate for the five levels of ability I'm qualified to teach. Also, the two emergency numbers to call: one for when you lose a kid (BUT NEVER LOSE A KID) and one for when a kid gets hurt (BUT NEVER LET A KID GET HURT). It was all kind of jumbled in my brain, and I felt conspicuously fraudish: yes, I was wearing the uniform of an expert, but I didn't feel like an expert at all. Honestly, I felt a little scared.

So when our supervisor told us to go greet guests at the lobby doors, it was like I'd been bought some serious time. ("Yes! Put me at the lobby doors, coach! I got this!") And with a song in my heart, I skipped over to those lobby doors and got right to work, mixing it up like a pro: "Good morning! What a great smile! Have a great day out there!" "Hi there! Good to see you! Ready for a fantastic day?" "Look at you in your crazy purple jacket! Love it!" I was in a zone, in a groove, relaxed, happy, owning every ounce of authority my uniform conferred. Then, all of a sudden, my supervisor came up, said they were splitting up a Level One class that had gotten too big, and asked me to take half the kids.

Level Ones (aka "Never Evers") meet in a small fenced area. Two instructors were dividing seventeen kids, all between 7 and 10, except for one 15 year-old girl named Rita. Rita was one of four siblings who needed to stay together (the other three were boys, age 7, 8, and 10), and also, who looked like she wanted to kill herself. 

Right off the bat, I saw three things that totally justified Rita's complete hatred of her life at that moment:

1. She was one foot taller and five years older than all the other students. 
2. Her littlest brother was crying. 
3. The instructor I was taking her and her brothers from was a 22 year-old, drop-dead gorgeous guy, Romeo, from Argentina, or Italy, or some foreign country where they make excruciatingly handsome men with curly black hair, beards, and big brown eyes. So here she is, on a ski vacation (COOL!) with her three little brothers (NOT!) and just when the first non-lame thing appears on the horizon, in the form of a very cute, very foreign instructor, along comes Granny Flanders: "Hey there, kids! Who wants to have some fun?"

After this super-inspired greeting, I took a moment to assess the group: Rita was scowling into her iPhone, the littlest brother was crying, and the other two were staring at me with expectant, but doubtful, expressions.  And my mind went completely blank. I had no clue what to do next. None.

But just as my super-cheery smile started morphing into a panicked grimace, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the other Level One instructor, Glen (also bearded and handsome, what are the odds, Rita? Haha! Again, so sorry!). "Dude," he whispered. "What do you do when one of your kids refuses to put on his skis?"

And there it was: the very act of providence I needed. Glen believed I knew what I was doing, which somehow turned me into someone who knew what I was doing. Someone named "Dude."

The little boy he was pointing to was leaning against the fence, defiantly staring off into space, arms folded, legs casually crossed, skis on the ground next to him, kicked off to the side. His face had "Double-dog dare you to try and make me ski, you giant douchebag," written all over it.

"Take him aside, get down on his level, and ask him if he'll give you just one hour to show him how much fun this can be. Tell him if he's still unhappy after an hour, you'll call his parents and he can quit. Make a deal. And if that doesn't work, ask a supervisor for help," I said.

"Thanks, man."

When I turned back around, I was looking straight into Romeo's gorgeous eyes. "Your little one--the crying boy?" he said. "I have to tell you: his bindings is not the right size for his boots. He cannot put his skis on. You need to fix."

And this turned out to be how it went. There was no luxury of time to worry about the best way to manage things--things needed managing, so they got managed. After we had the bindings adjusted, I took the kids in for cocoa to warm up and talk about our plan for the day. Then, I sat next to the crying boy and asked him why he was sad. Looking up at me with pitiful tear-filled eyes, he said his legs hurt, that he'd played hockey six days in a row, he was tired and he wanted his dad. 

"Aw. I'm sorry," I said. "You know, sometimes, when I ski a bunch of days in a row, the next day I go out my legs are so sore I think I can't do it. But then, after about an hour, they feel better and I'm having fun. Would you be willing to give me just one hour and see if that happens for you? I want you to have fun, so if you're still hurting after an hour, we'll call your parents and you can go back and rest. Does that sound like something you'd be willing to try?"

Miraculously, he nodded his head. (Boo-yah!) 

And--surprise--he turned out to a lightning-fast learner and amazing little skier--his skating experience gave him a huge advantage. Seriously, he was paralleling by the end of the day, zipping around, having a great time, and really proud of his progress. The other two brothers were fun and sassy, and came up with an affectionate nickname for me based on the silly helmet cover I wear (see BUT NEVER LOSE A KID! above). I even eventually won over Rita, to the extent that 15 year-old girls can be won over by middle-aged women wearing embarrassing headgear. We bonded over having little brothers, and I made a joke about her Handsome-Romeo-for-Granny trade, which evoked surprised laughter and a shadow of a smile. Anyway, I must not have totally sucked, because two days later, the parents requested me for a second lesson with their kids--this time, a private one. Huge honor, major points.

So, I feel good in my uniform now. Am I an expert instructor? Hahaha, don't make me laugh! Not by a long shot, not even close.

But I want to be one someday. And in the meantime (and finally, at this age!) I'm okay with--proud of, even--what I am now: someone who's willing to learn, wants to help, and is doing my best.

And, who also happens to be a kick-ass greeter.