My children, apparently feeling I was not receiving enough derision in my diet, somehow talked me into going snow skiing a few weeks ago.
Skiing is mostly a matter of standing in lines.
No one in their right mind would board a bus which was dented, crushed, and battered along its entire length, but we are expected to accept a pair of skis whose previous user must have skied through shrapnel. You pick a short line, but apparently the woman in front of you is attempting to buy a condo. As her conversation eats up the hours, you realize that by the time you get your turn you will qualify for the senior discount. My children assure me that I don't need a lesson in order to plummet down the mountain. Ignoring their advice, I go over to the ski school, where I am culled from the crowd like the weakest deer in the herd.