Once, when I was younger and had more cartilage, when I had no foreknowledge of all but one other family member blowing out their knee, when invincibility still seemed possible, I was an aggressive—though polite—skier.
But now, nearing age 50, I frequently make decisions about physical tomfoolery by calculating my insurance deductible.
Just two weeks ago I went ice skating at an indoor rink, still wearing the Lake Placid ice skates my parents bought me as a child (“We bought them bigger, so you could grow into them,” my mom told me that Christmas, 40 years on still proving her wisdom). All was fine until suddenly a young girl zipped in front of me and I couldn’t quite remember the toe pick and wiped out.