Poles + Tongues: A Non-Sexual Story

Boy, did I have an interesting time on my winter break ski trip. Very interesting. Never mind the fact that it rained, then went up to 60 degrees, then froze...(pretty bad conditions)...then snowed while we were leaving. Actually, never mind the actual skiing at all. My interesting experience occurred on the chairlift.

Now, I know what you're thinking. No, this little incident didn't involve anyone falling off the lift, nor did it involve anything sexual. I was with my family, after all. However, it did involve my little brother. And a bet. And my dad eventually stepping in to our little disagreement, causing the Great Demise of Maxine's Tongue.

It all started when my brother and I got into a debate on whether or not tongues actually stick to cold metal poles. He said they would, and I said they wouldn't. I knew it was just an old wives tale passed on from generation to generation, but not factual at all. Right?

We decided to test out our conflicting theories. It wasn't that cold out...maybe about 35 degrees F. I pressed my tongue to the side of the chairlift. Nothing. I left it there for a few minutes. I even wiggled it around. Still nothing. It didn't even stick to the pole for a mere second. Triumphant, I exited the chairlift, once again beating my little brother in a meaningless squabble. Little did I know that the only reason it didn't stick then was that the temperature was above freezing. This incident would come back to haunt me.

The next day, we were riding up the same chairlift when my brother raised the tongue/pole issue again. My dad clarified our question by saying, "Oh, your tongue won't get stuck!" Of course, I believed him. Ugh. Bad move, Maxi, bad move.

Oblivious to me, they were both retaining extreme amounts of laughter as I pressed my tongue to the pole. It was an ominous sign of the danger to come. Instantly, my tongue stuck, numbing it. I tried to pull it off. It wouldn't budge. We were nearing the top of the mountain. Aaah! I began to worry. I couldn't ride back down the chairlift with my tongue still stuck. I felt like the little foolish schoolboy that is the butt of all his town's jokes in one of those Laura Ingles Wilder books. I started screaming.

"Daaaeey! Daad! Hewp! Mah tung ith sthuk to da pole! HEWP!"
He cracked up.
Way to go, family.
Such a huge help in my time of need.

I had to get the job done myself. But how? I took my still-gloved hand, raised it to the pole, and drew in a deep breath. I knew what I had to do. I ripped the tongue off and shook my head side to side to free it. Ah. Safe at last.

Unfortunately, my tongue freedom came at a price. Some tongue stayed frozen to the bar. My tongue bled for the next 4 runs and was sensitive to everything I ate that day. (Especially mustard. Don't ask.) Plus, it hurt. Badly. Very badly. It was still sore all throughout my New Years Eve celebration and still feels a little hurt today. Poor tongue.

So, if you were at Hunter yesterday and saw a girl in a lime green coat all over the place down the hill spitting red blood, sorry.
And, if you rode on chair 1 on the Hunter Quad and saw a mysterious white blob stuck to the pole, I am extremely sorry.