On a high school field trip to Stowe, Vt., I learned to ski. Sort of. Having mastered the bunny slope, I braced myself to attack the real mountain. Unfortunately, on the way up I was so thrilled at having boarded the lift sans decapitation that -- in a moment of what can only be described as catatonic distraction -- I simply let go of my poles and dumbly watched them plummet. As I ascended toward the peak, I could only look back in panic as my invaluable props faded into the great white sparkling oblivion.

False modesty aside, I am spectacularly uncoordinated, which often keeps me from exercising. Repeated humiliation can have that effect. Though I know intellectually that I am not the only clumsy woman in greater L.A. (I think?), I feel otherwise while standing dumbly in the middle of some dance or exercise class.

Still, rather than buy a Lap-Band, I'm moved every so often to enroll in a crazy Latin dance hybrid or new fangled workout class. Operating under some bizarre illusion of fun, I still try and retry everything from snowboarding to sea kayaking to Core Fusion. In the end, I'm inevitably flummoxed.

This experimentation has led certain valuable truths to emerge: For instance (as evidenced by the ski pole debacle), athletic props, equipment and gizmos can only worsen the situation. Like when I joined a local softball league (spurred again by some misguided urge to try), my mitt became a hindrance. Once I slid it over my right hand, that arm hung like a useless appendage and I incomprehensibly attempted to field with only my bare left palm.

I won't even horrify you with the gruesome Ab Roller incident of 2008.

As long as I've subjected myself to abject torture, I figure I might as well share what I've learned with other coordination-challenged women out there, if there actually are any. (BTW, if you're currently exclaiming something like "Totally! I never know what's going on for the first 10 minutes of a workout class!", I am not impressed. Ten minutes of struggle is child's play to us genuinely clumsy women.)

Here are some additional realities that I've uncovered, while trying to pretend I have any semblance of athletic ability:

1. Large, organized exercise classes may be the worst-case scenario. To this day, when I stand beside 12 other women on a wooden floor in front of a mirror, the words "right" and "left" lose all meaning. (This phenomenon presented itself when I first took dance as a child: The teachers at School of American Ballet mistakenly accepted me based on flexibility and body type. The resulting years made "Black Swan" look like a Disney movie.)

2. People with athletic ability do not understand. No matter how sympathetic they might behave, coordinated people actually believe you're not trying hard enough. They will nod and smile while you describe your inadequacy. Then, they will invite you to a hip hop dance class.

When I first met my husband Andrew, like most naturally athletic types, he couldn't accept that true effort could yield such terrible results. On the beach during vacations, he shakes his head as I accidentally fling Frisbees into the ocean and footballs into the sand, trying - despite my warnings - to "teach" me. Will they never learn?

3. Before you surrender yourself to a life of slothing and elastic waistbands, try yoga (not just the pants). Slow and patient practices -- like hiking too -- work well for us uncoordinated types. Instead of creating additional pitfalls, props like blocks and bands make shaky legged stances significantly more manageable. And, since yogis are supposed to be judgment-free and kind, no one can laugh, point or yell "Timber!" when you fall on your face during tree pose.

4. When in doubt, stay home. That's right. I said it, Ms. Future Shut-In. With DVDs, you can learn movements at your own pace and, if you stretch, jump or kick in the wrong direction, you're at risk of injuring only the furniture. (My cats are fast enough to get away.) Sometimes I just turn on really loud music and dance on my own. It burns calories, it's not boring and there are no pesky steps.

Who do I feel like I shouldn't have admitted that?

5. And, though embarrassing occasions do arise and the expense is higher, a patient one-on-one trainer can be very effective. Even just a few sessions to learn useful gym exercises (and how to safely use those damn machines-yeah, you, Ab Roller!) can go a long way for future solo workouts.

Most importantly, I've come to embrace the fighting spirit I've developed thanks to my startling ineptitude. I have what a million sympathetic mothers have touted to unattractive and untalented children throughout history: Character!

In fact, my husband Andrew has adopted an outlook on my lack of athletic prowess about which I'm proud: Whenever clumsiness comes up in conversation, he says, "Nora is uncoordinated, but she has heart and she's willing to try anything once." I think he's right.

And that's the kind of "right" I actually understand.


Nora Zelevansky is a freelance journalist, essayist and editor for publications like ELLE, Vanity Fair online, Salon.com, Travel + Leisure, The Los Angeles Times, Martha Stewart Weddings, Town & Country, InStyle and Daily Candy. She is a contributing writer for C Magazine.