Last Friday I got reacquainted with my inner child. We have been estranged for quite some time. This small self-imposed intervention involved skis, a day pass to Deer Valley, and an honest ditch day from work. I knew it was long past due when everyone was startled at my declaration that I was taking the day off just to take the day off. Seems I have become a common-law wife to my job. We have been together for so many months that we have done the equivalent of a Vulcan mind meld; we were one.I am not my job. I am not my job (or so I internally chant week in and week out).
This was premeditated and done without regard to what was on my calendar for that particular Friday. The weather channel was monitored throughout the week to ensure fresh snow combined with blue skies. As luck would have it my Friday off came with the bonus of being the conjoined twin of President’s Day so I gifted myself a 4-day weekend. That’s right, not just a 2-day weekend, not just a 3-day weekend but a 4, a 4, a 4-day weekend for the price of one (now go back a re-read that sentence with the inflection and volume of Billy May’s from the OxyClean and Kaboom commercials).
The morning amounted to a balmy 18 degrees at the base of the mountain. With the promise of blue skies by noon and a mountain that would be packed the remainder of the weekend I grabbed the gear and began my Friday of freedom. By the time I hit the top of the first lift I was more relaxed than I had been in weeks. After having 100+ ski days at Deer Valley back in ’99-’00 this place is like a second home. The only other place that can compare would be La Jolla shores and that's just too far to travel for a day off.I forgot how much fun the conversations on a ski lift can be. Skiing by yourself you are joined by a cadre of personalities. It’s the 4-minute version of sitting next to a stranger on an airplane. You never know if they are full of it, faking an accent, or are your next new friend. On my second lift ride I joined two stuffy gentlemen that completely ignored my existence and a teenager that had the angst of a trust fund. After passing the third or fourth pole the older men were deep in conversation about other ski resorts, namely Beaver, CO. I tried to stay aloof and scout out the next trail for my descent when the kid on my left started to giggle and shake. He looked at me as if he had just passed gas or lit the fuse to a series of cherry bombs in the cafeteria trashcan. With his eyes darting between my face and the two old guys I gave a confused look and then his head twitched towards the old men. His non-verbal cues quickly translated into “do you hear what they are saying?!” I gave heed to his not-so-subtle gesture and overheard:
Old Dude 1: “I love Beaver, I love Beaver! Once you do a long day of Beaver you can’t go back.”Old Dude 2: “Nothing compares to letting loose on the backside of Beaver. You can slam it out all day. Beaver mornin’, noon, and night!”
All of the sudden this exchange was construed out of context and the teenager and I were a transformed into a version of Beavis & Butthead. The old men clearly knew that we were laughing at them and they knew why. Our insolence was childish and they tried to reflect the awkwardness onto us with a direct and condescending, “Do you have a problem with Beaver?” I was saved by the quick wit of the kid when, without missing a beat, he blurted out with the gusto of Amy Sedaris, “I love it, I LOVE BEEAAVVEERR! It’s the only place you can face plant mornin’, noon, and night!” Just as quickly as he blurted his proclaimation he was overcome with ADHD and reallocated his interest to the 5-kid pile up below us in ski school. I quickly became occupied with checking for text messages and Facebook updates. We all socially retreated and endured our trek uphill.
The eternity of silence that followed was maintained until we were two towers from unloading. The chair started to giggle with the chuckle of Old Dude 2 when he contracted the Beavis & Butthead disease. All he could say in between chuckles was “face plant.” We reached the crest of the mountain, parted ways and enjoyed the anonymous nature provided by head-to-toe ski gear. The kid and I crossed paths only once more that day. After lunch I headed toward Bald Mountain where he saw me from his lift chair and shouted “Face Plant!” I laughed and realized that I can never go skiing at Beaver, CO for the simple fear of face planting.
True Story.
