As if the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue wasn’t ego-deflating enough, along comes the Winter Olympics to make me feel even worse about myself.

Don’t misunderstand. I love the Olympics, especially the cold weather version. I’ve always been drawn to the mountains, and I love all the shushing and shredding and showboating of alpine sports.

Granted, those who have actually seen me on the slopes might think this is counterintuitive, if not outright laughable. I admit that the girl who earned an “A” on balance beam in 8th grade P.E. class has had more than a few equilibrium failures on snow and ice.

The tragic truth is, despite my Scandinavian heritage, I was never cut out for any of the Nordic sports except, maybe, yodelling. I could get down the mountain, you see. My problem was getting up.

My alpine misadventures began as a child of seven when my father took me to a tiny Colorado ski town call Crested Butte. On that trip, I managed to single-handedly bring the J-bar lift to a grinding halt when I tried to sit (rather than lean) on the bar. Yes, my little butt brought down the Butte for a good 30 minutes. Dad was so proud.

The same day, I careened out-of-control toward a barn at the bottom of the hill, only to be saved in the nick of time by an alert and nimble ski patrolman. My father, reflecting on the incident that night over a martini, said it might have been wise to teach me how to stop while still on the flatlands.

In my 20’s, on a trip to Keystone, Colorado, I grabbed on to two strange men while trying to dismount a crowded chair lift and brought them, and the next ten skiers, down with me in a massive pile-up. That little (but steep) incline at the exit of the lift intimidated me more than the scariest run.

I was no better on the ice rink.

Oh, I was one heck of a roller skater – some would even say a star – in my heyday at the Mission Skate Rink. I OWNED the Hokey Pokey event in 1964, and earned a respectable 3rd place in Limbo in ’65, even though while “Limbo’ing lower now…” I split my Bermuda shorts through the seat and had to retire to the little girls’ room and, ultimately, from Limbo forever.

Inexplicably, my skating prowess hit the skids the minute I laced up a pair of rented ice skates. Going from four wide wheels to one skinny blade was too much for my weak ankles to bear. After a few humiliating spills, I would spend an entire session clinging to the wall like Tonya Harding’s wary competitors.

There is one alpine sport, however, at which I excel. And that, my friends, is après ski.

Yet to be acknowledged by the Olympic committee as an official sports, après ski is defined as the “activities and entertainment following a day’s skiing” and – excuse me for bragging – but I am solid-gold good at it!

Après ski involves three key skills – dressing the part in cozy sweaters, scarves and boots; choosing the right hot toddy; and sitting by the fire.

And there is where I shine – the sitting part. This is no surprise, of course, as I’ve been in training all my life. I have the uncanny ability to sit on all kinds of surfaces – sofas, banquettes, bar stools, loveseats, Lazy-Boys, shag rugs, bean bag chairs. I have a killer dismount from a futon, and can go from standing to semi-prone on a sectional in under 2 seconds. Once, when I stuck the landing into an easy chair, simultaneously stretching my legs onto a cowhide ottoman, onlookers broke into spontaneous applause. I’m just that good.

That’s why I call upon the Committee to make ‘apres ski’ an Olympic event in Russia 2014. The world hasn’t seen the best of the best, until they see me shred the sofa with my Double McSprawl.