Two years ago, when I was eighteen, Alex asked me to his Christmas dance. I was really excited to go-- the date involved sledding, which I hadn't done in ages.
On the day of the dance, as I donned layer upon layer of coats and scarves and snowsuits and gloves, my father warned me to be careful. The place that we were going sledding had an avalanche risk... he wanted us to be very cautious.
My brother, who is an avid Jon Krakauer fan and who dreams of climbing Everest one day, was sitting nearby, helping me lace up my snow boots. Struck with inspiration, I turned to him. He would know, after all.
"What do I do in case of an avalanche?" I asked him.
"Well." He looked thoughtful. "Some people say you swim against the snow. Some say ride with it. Do what you can to stay close to the surface."
"Really." I looked up at him, expecting more.
"I don't know," he said matter-of-factly, jerking at my bootlace. He considered. "I really think you just die."
I started to cry.

My family finds this story very funny and tells it whenever the opportunity presents itself. This is their proof that I cry at the drop of a hat.