I skied once. My jerk of a boyfriend, who knew how to sky, took me to Mount Rose in Reno, Nevada. I'd never skied in my life, and he left me at the bottom of the run before the lift because I was taking too long to get to it. I didn't realize that the lift wasn't going to stop for me to disembark because it didn't stop for me to get on. The chair hit me in the butt, and I went ass over tea kettle, losing my skis and poles. A stranger helped put me back together, and then I had to figure out how to get down the mountain. I'd never had ANY instruction. I would get going so fast that I had to fall over on my side. It was the only way I knew to stop. I actually subjected myself to the torture four times down that mountain. With the instructions of kind strangers, I managed only to fall down four times on my last run. I think I should write about the incident. I'll title it, Never Sky with an Asshole. Needless to say, I'm no longer with that creep. 😄