At the age of 39, however, I married a skier (I'm not actually sure which was more surprising). Anyway, it became clear that there was a silent clause in our vows in which, apparently, the JP said 'and will you take this man skiing' just before I said the two dangerous words.
I dutifully followed the Frog off to the slopes with somewhat predictable results, ie, I hated it and only went back on extreme suffrance.
I fell down and couldn't get up, like a living, breathing old lady joke. I shouted. I threw things. I fell over again. I may have cried. 3 ski trips later and I could actually ski successfully, albeit with scant enjoyment. I became resigned to my fate, I purchased ski boots - then, mercifully, I fell pregnant and have managed to avoid skiing for more years than I could ever have hoped.
However, time has a sort of relentless thing about it and we now have a son big enough to be strapped into skis and thrown down a snowy hill - so, an uncharacteristically cheerful Frog booked a ski weekend recently and that's pretty much what we did to Charlie. Poor boy.
He fell over and couldn't get up. He shouted. He threw things. He cried so much his sunscreen washed off. He did, however, actually ski, loved it and is dying to go back. The Frog says he is clearly my son. I say, on evidence, he is clearly his Father's boy.
Importantly however, I've discovered that I have become a better skier simply by not skiing. It's true! I've not been near a slope for 6 years now and I can actually ski like a proper skiing person. This is great.
Perhaps, if I stay off the slopes for another 6 years I may actually become world class... however given I am outnumbered in this house by remorselessly keen ski people, I don't much fancy my chances.