I’m a middle-aged guy. Cheap fun disappears from your life about the time you switch from beer to scotch because, at this age, when you drink a beer you have to let your slacks out two inches. One day you wake up and everything you care about costs a fortune-the wife, the kids, the house, the enormous SUV that the cold, discomfort and danger of New England winters caused you to buy so that you can back over Honda Insights in the supermarket parking lot. At 56, the way you tell how much you love something is by checking the size of the $ number next to it on the Visa bill. I really love skiing.