Reckless Abandon(ment of work duties)

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.

The Spoken Word

The other day I was doing my post-holiday returns and exchanges when I stopped off at Rubio’s to rest my feet and grab lunch. Before I even had the chance to take my first bite a flock of seagulls (aka Parley's Country Club housewives) made their perch at the table next to me. The squawking was relentless as they caught up on all the neighborhood gossip. I tried to block them out but started to recognize specific names as I reached the mid-point of my Chicken Burrito Especiale. My stomach no longer craved the Baja cuisine in my hands; I wanted to throw up as private details dripped from the beaks of these vicious ladies.

After a mental check that these names were more than coincidence or happenstance I tried to block them out like I do at church services. It does not matter the denomination, there are always the gaggle of ladies that try to make themselves feel better by trashing those around them. I know this from experience as a victim and a spectator. I gleaned who was on the verge of divorce, who had a gay son sent home from a mission, the Christmas ruined by a father’s gambling habits, their ironic wagers on when a cocaine addicted father would relapse, and on and on. By the time I forced the last bite in my mouth I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry or scream. I decided to let it go but changed my mind by the time I dropped my tray at the trash and refilled my Dr. Pepper.

With purpose in my step I approached the table of public nuisances. With a big smile on my face and camouflaged as if I could have been any of their sons I injected myself into their dialog.

“Pardon me?”

With initial annoyance they stopped and looked at me. It was like when a flock of birds are fighting over a bag of chips and someone approaches, it was a wide-eyed nervous pause. Mistaking me as a possible neighborhood resident, maybe a child of some unnamed family acquaintance, or even a member of the country club they all politely smiled and I even received a “aren’t you the son of…”

I interrupted. “Sisters, Jesus prompted me to come over here and tell you to stop talking Shit and love thy neighbor.”

Shock overtook the table while those at the surrounding tables took notice at the new found silence from our corner of the restaurant.

I kept smiling, raised my eyebrows with the tilt of my head, turned and walked towards the door. I left a wake of awkward silence trailing behind me. A silence that typically accompanies the instance of a parent spanking a child too forcefully in public. An awkward disdain from strangers has a knowledgeable sting that can slap reality into ones life. Awkward indeed, but not for me.

I headed to Barnes & Noble and contemplated if my actions were too harsh. No, they weren’t. These ladies needed a wake up call and I needed to be their table conversation at dinner that night. They would wonder in fear who I was and what I might repeat. I very well could have been that quiet gentleman that sits in the back of Sunday School and spectates. I could be that man indeed because I am.

Later…

While at the bookstore, with a copy of Entertainment Weekly in my hands, the short dark-haired lady had found me and found the strength to start a conversation.

I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she debated approaching me like a teenager does when they want to ask for car keys (after having wrecked a car the night before).

“How dare you?!” is all I heard. She was convinced that she could create a socially insufferable situation for me like the one she experienced 15 minutes earlier. With a look that I have perfected as a camp counselor dealing with difficult teens I lowered my brow and distinctly asked her, “you have no idea who I am, do you?”

She wavered with the possibility that I could cause her societal bruising.

She continued, “How dare you speak to me and my friends with such foul language!”

My response was succinct and in a hushed tone that made her upper lip curl.

“How dare YOU take advantage of another's situation and turn it into lunch hour gossip. You are ugly on the inside – loud, mean, and ugly. That’s not up for debate”

I placed the magazine back on the stand and her enraged reply went mute in my ears as I again turned and walked to the door.

Maybe those ladies will think twice about their group conversation the next time they are in public. Chances are they won’t. Creatures of habit rarely change their tune.

If anything they will start looking around more often at church for someone that looks a little like me. Too bad they won’t ever find me.