Brain Drain on the Ski Slopes

• Coming back from the rental lodge, because someone left one boot home (yes, he's wearing his boots to skiing outings going forward) T decided it would be faster to ski over to the abandoned lodge our ski club favors for lack of crowds and ability to lunch together as one big group. I agreed and told him to put them on and head over. Not used to crummy rentals, he found that they took him to the bunny hill, rather than him controlling their direction. The bunny hill goes down, but then back up. The only way to not have to duck walk -- and this was going to be duck walking up icy crust that they like to call packed powder -- was to go as fast as possible down the downhill part. "TUCK!" I yelled. "WHAT?" he yelled back. I squatted down into a tuck position to show him. He stood straight up and held his arms as far as possible out to each side--not a better way to completely catch every ounce of drag possible--and yelled, "WHAT GOOD DOES TUCKING DO?!" Not in a "I'd like to know the answer" sort of way, but in a "You know squat; why should I listen to you, you stupid moron?" sort of way. A way that made me hurl the one boot we had with us as far as I could across the snow in sheer frustration that I can't say the sky is gunmetal gray without an argument. (We don't get blue around these parts much this time of year.) If he tucked, got up the other side, met up with me, and then asked, with an honest desire to know, I would calmly explain aerodynamics and show him competitive skiers on YouTube videos when we got home. But this wasn't an "I'd like an answer" question; this was an "I want an argument" question. And "I want an argument"questions are what I get from morning to bedtime, even though I have gotten in the habit of asking, "Do you want an answer, or do you want an argument?"Ninety percent of the time when he says he wants an answer, he responds with an argument, so now I add, "If you say one word after I answer your question, I'll know you were asking for an argument, not an answer."
• Waiting for the lift, T stood with the tips of his skis where the center of your boots should be, and I didn't have time to move him forward. The chair hit him early, nearly catapulting him off of it. I grabbed his coat and yanked him back on. "I was on the chair," he protested. I explained that his boot needs to be on the line in order for him to be in the correct position for when the chair comes around. Proceed to argument. "My ski was there!" "Right, but it's where your boot is that needs to be there or the chair won't hit you in the right spot when it comes around." More arguing, which I tuned out. 
• Part way up the lift, the wind caught my pass and flipped it over so my photo was no longer visible. "Your pass is upside down!" he chortled with delight. I think he thought I would care. And was enjoying being able to be the one to point it out. I indicated it was of no concern to me.
• We got to the bottom of the hill and he followed my instruction to turn left just before the bottom and use his momentum to ski up to the yurt where we gather for lessons. One small victory there. Something about his boot was bothering him and he popped off both skis, took the one boot off, rearranged his wicking base layer, and put the boot back on. Then he proceed to try to put his skis back on, but was about to put the uphill ski on first. "Always put your downhill ski on first," I advised. What prevented this from turning into an argument? It was certainly the type of opener he is always on the lookout for. The ski instructor -- a man about my age -- looked at me, nodded approvingly, then looked at T and said, "Listen to your Mom; she knows her stuff." (I think he was going to tell him the same thing, but I beat him to the punch.) I wanted to kiss that man. He made my day.