(February 2003: the bunny hill at Lost Trail Powder Mountain on the Montana-Idaho border.)
Our ski instructor that day looked like Jack Palance in City Slickers, and he acted like him, too. We called him Curly. (Not to his face.)
I don't think Curly liked us very much. Correction: I don't think he liked me very much. My nervous giggling frustrated him; my lack of core body strength infuriated him; and my Better Off Dead references seemed to fly right over his head, for some reason. Maybe because he was a seventy year-old grizzled mountain man? But seriously, if you were a skiing instructor and you saw me walking toward you with that dumb look on my face, would you be very enthusiastic about the hand the gods had dealt you that day? I mean, good lord, I showed up in wind pants, for god's sake.
To Curly's credit, though, by the end of the day (the entirety of which I spent on said bunny hill), I could ski to the bottom, stop without falling over, and shimmy my way to the tow rope to ride back up. (On the other hand, at one point I did manage to fall "the wrong way" off the tow rope, requiring the tow rope operator to turn the whole thing off and all the other skiers on the line - many of them under the age of five - to audibly heckle me for my ineptitude.)