The day after Thanksgiving was officially pronounced to be family ski day.
So I went through the ritual.
I got up early in the morning. I checked the ski conditions. I loaded up our car with too much winter gear. We went up to the mountain. I bought us lift tickets and rented skis. I told them that I thought the skis that they had given me did not match my black winter parka with the bright white skull pattern, nor the helmet and boots with the silver and gold flames. I showed them my gloves which look like bones. They gave me better skis. I zipped out to the lift for the bunny slope. I took the lift to the top. I dismounted the lift chair and fell. I could not get up. I managed to move out of the way of the many novice skiers coming off the lift. I tried to get up. But I couldn't. I used my poles. I moved around. I put my skis perpendicular to the hill. I shouted, "I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP!" I clapped my hands and wished for fairies to come help me get up. I waved off the rescue crew. I let the St. Bernard give me some whiskey from the little barrel around his neck. I took off my skis. I stood up and put the skis back on. I listened to my children tell me all day how they are better skiers than me.
And a good time was had by all.