Red means 'stop'. . . or 'blood'.

My lovely wife E loves to ski.
It's her most favourite winter sport ever.

I do not come from an athletic family.
Not even mildly athletic.
My most favourite winter sport is bowling. I can bowl like the devil.
5 or 10 pin, it don't matter to the Jesus.

Living within spitting distance of the mountains now means that every morning when I wake up, my lovely wife reminds me that we should go skiing. Because we're "soooo close". When I lived close to 'Jilly's Gentlemen's Club' in Toronto, the same logic did not follow.

I relented last weekend, and while waiting for my ski lesson to begin, my lovely wife came to visit me--I was sunning myself on a bench, soaking up the 'good life'. I stood, like all gentlemen should, to greet her. She was still coasting along on her skis, and moving fast enough that, if left to gravity, she would have slid right past me. To make sure that no such affront was made, so stuck her ski pole out in front of her, like a lance, and stopped herself in a timely manner by jamming the ski pole into my crotch.
Not my thigh.
Not my stomach.
My balls.

Suspiciously, this act followed close on the heels to a discussion we had after watching a reality programme featuring families with little Holy Terrors, wherein she said, "We are--I AM NOT--having children."
Well, darling, not if you keep that up.