I grew up in a place where "snow" was what the TV did when it didn't have any reception.
Outside, we were lucky if it even rained.
However, for a few fateful years (between 11 years old and 14 years old), my parents and I lived in Utah. In an effort to help me forget that I didn't have any friends, my mom signed me up for skiing lessons.
I moved into a neighborhood where everyone had divided into cliques when they were still in diapers.
As a result, it was a little hard to find a place.
And it probably didn't help that I hadn't grown up yet and still liked wearing capes and playing with Legos. (Don't judge.)
So ... skiing.
The adventure of trying to stay standing while also trying to keep my skis from crossing would probably be a good post all by itself.
Let me summarize by saying that the instructor probably wanted to put me in his "skiing toddlers" class.
When we finally got to the point where we wouldn't pose a significant danger to ourselves or others, it was time to conquer the ski lift.
While waiting in line, I started to lose my nerve as I saw those chairs whip around before smacking into people to carry them to the top of the mountain.
They looked awfully fast.
When it was my turn, I tried to do my best not to look like I was about to wet my pants and prepared to get a permanent dent in my calves from the chair.
However, I had nothing to worry about. I felt like a pro as I plopped down on the bench and felt ready to tackle the giant mountain ahead of me ...
... until my poles suddenly shot out of my hands.
No one told me I should take the straps off my wrists and hold the poles away from the ground. There was a little lip of snow right after we got on, and before I knew it, my poles were lying in the snow about 20 feet behind me.
Immediately I wondered how I would be able to get off the chair without them.
Fortunately, I managed to get off without dying, and a nice skier behind me brought up my poles from below.
That is why I'm sticking to the bunny slopes from now on.