“Sir, can you pull your mask up over your nose, please?”

The question was polite enough, coming as it was from one of the employees of the Park City ski resort. The problem with the request was that all I was doing was walking through an archway. The archway separated the drop-off circle from the interior of the ski village. In other words, I was in the out-of-doors. To my son and significant-other, who were standing next to me, I wondered aloud if the employee was aware of the CDC guidelines concerning transmission of the plague or, for that matter, any disease, on a breezy, sunny day. I could only assume that he had not. I assumed the management of the resort had not, either. Or, if they were aware of the low risk of trading the plague around in those weather conditions, they had chosen to ignore them. What I was sure about was that I had yet to have anyone else in Utah ask me to put on a mask when I wasn’t inside of something.

Despite my desire to do the opposite, I went ahead and pulled my gater, which was already covering my mouth, up over my nose. The day was young, and I felt it prudent to comply with the peon who, despite his shirt not being brown, had somehow been given the authority to scold anyone whose face was visible below their eyes. I complied because, had I given the peon any guff, he most assuredly would have reported me to his superiors, who in turn would have reported me to their superiors, and so-on and so-forth, until I was removed from the slopes. It’s not that I’m a coward, or that I never rebel against (what I consider to be) the ridiculous, it was just that those lift tickets cost a crapload, and I’m 90 percent sure a refund would not have been forthcoming had I been kicked out.

It’s their resort after all and, as such, they held all the cards, at least for anyone who wanted to ski on their mountain.

And I did want to ski on their mountain.

I wanted to spend the day in the great outdoors with my family and friends, letting Mother Nature kick my ass at 10,000 feet.

And that ticket to Salt Lake City wasn’t cheap, either.

Burying my frustration deep, deep down, I and my compadres managed to get into a lift line without being scolded by the mask fascists a second time. A scolding was coming, however. This time in the form a civilian standing behind us in line. She was with her husband and their two munchkins. This time the ‘offender’ happened to be my son.

“It’s really important that you wear your mask.”

I heard the squeaky voice originate from somewhere behind me but, initially, did not realize she was speaking to my son, whose balaclava had slid down under his nose.

“Excuse me, can you please put your mask on?”

It was with this second request that I realized she was speaking to our group. Or at least one member of our group.

“Is she talking to you?” I confirmed with my offspring.

“Yup.” He did not pull his mask up. I looked back at the squeaky-voiced lady and her family and felt sorry for the husband, who had yet to speak a word but was no doubt sure that, should things go south, he would likely be called upon to defend his nettlesome spouse against those she was bothering.

“Well, damn, I feel sorry for her husband.”

“Me too.” He still hadn’t pulled his mask up. He was building a personal insurgency against the self-appointed mask fascist. “Why are they out here if they’re so afraid.”

“No idea.” Outside of a vague, undeveloped theory on how the squeaky-voiced expect the rest of the world to conform to whatever their needs are in the moment, I didn’t really have an answer. It did occur to me, however, that no one would expect the resort to level off all the triple black diamonds just so the weaker skiers (such as myself) could ski on them.

That would just be ridiculous.

While the three of us quietly contemplated the mysteries of the plague and its affect on human behavior, the mask-fascist and other three members of her nuclear family had retreated to a six-foot distance behind us. Of course, they were only able to control the length of tarmac between them and us. Alternately, the people behind them showed no sign of maintaining the control space, so either squeaky-voice had not made the request or, if she did make the request, had simply been ignored. My son had done the same. His nose was still clearly visible to all willing to take notice.

His rebellion did not last long, however. When we closed in on the last few feet separating us from the gondola, we were accosted by someone whose only job appeared to be to enforce the mask rule.

“Sir, can you please pull your mask up over your nose.”

The fact that the hired gun was polite did not assuage my annoyance. It seemed one couldn’t travel more than 50 feet or so before enforcers would descend.

My son, seeing the writing on the wall, went ahead and hoisted the balaclava over the offending protuberance. He had paid for his own lift ticket, and was as ill-prepared as I to have it revoked before sliding down even one hill.

“Thank you, sir.”

Go fuck yourself is what I’m sure my son was thinking. I know I was.

Long story short.

It went this way all week. The zeal with which the mask-fascists practiced their dark art knew few logical bounds. At one point I was asked to pull my mask up while I was blowing my nose. Another while I was taking a swig of water from a bottle. I suppose it’s possible the employees were involved in a contest for which, perhaps, the prize was a plane ticket to someplace where people weren’t aggravated by people such as themselves. Like St. Thomas.

It’s also possible they were just enjoying their new-found positions of authority. Power is exhilarating, even if it only involves annoying the crap out of people who paid a small fortune for the privilege of being annoyed.

New T-Shirt idea: “My parents went to Park City and all I got was this lousy mask.”

Never mind. That would just be ridiculous.