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HENNIKER, N.H. — I do not ski. I don’t ever want to learn to ski. I find nothing compelling about the idea of careening down a cold, steep hill at breakneck speed with nothing to break my fall but pointy poles and small children.
I thought I was normal until I moved to New England and married an avid skier and snowboarder. Together we produced two mini-skiers, and suddenly, I was an outlier in my own family. When we set out on a weekend trip, I had two options — hole up in somebody’s ski house or try to find a quiet spot in a lodge where I could read and duck the aforementioned pokey poles.
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