On Spring Break in Whistler at the age of 30 with my Parents, or, What is Happening to Me? Day 3
What follows is an account of my 8-day spring break vacation, spent at the ski resort Whistler/Blackcomb in British Columbia, Canada. It’s just me and my parents. I am 30 years old. Single. Depressed. God rapes us in mysterious ways.
For those of you who may know me and my parents, I must say, I do not hate or despise them. These are simply observations intended for humor and I appreciate them as people and certainly love them as my parents. That said, they’re crazy.
I’m going skiing today. I’m up at 8:00 am. I had some weird dream I can’t really remember but wish I couldn’t remember at all. All I know is that it involved my parents and it was stressful. Even that is too much. I haven’t skied in over two years. This is a lot for me. I’ve skied at least 10 days a year (often more) for the last 20 years. I didn’t ski once last year. This is my first day skiing this year and it’s already March. I try not to show it but I’m afraid I might hurt myself. Spoiler alert: I don’t.
It’s a really beautiful day out. It’s about 25 degrees and it’s sunny. God, I miss skiing. My boots are killing me. Are they supposed to hurt this much. I can’t remember. They’ve always hurt a little bit, but man, I feel like a Chinese girl in the mid 19th century. After two runs, I decide to loosen the boots. Much better. Apparently my feet have gained weight in the last two years.
I kind of like skiing alone. I get to listen to music and I don’t have to talk to anyone. Though I would like to talk to that attractive woman sitting next to me on the chairlift. It seems unreasonable that she’s showing no interest in talking to me. I wonder what she’s listening to. Probably fucking Green Day. On second thought, it’s probably better we don’t talk.
I’m eating lunch by myself. This sucks. Look, don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem doing things by myself. I love going to the movies by myself. I go to the bar by myself. I often eat lunch in my hometown by myself. But you have to understand, the ski lodge is chock-a-block full of families and friends chatting about their favorite runs of the day, where they want to head next, and that crazy spill so-and-so took on that black diamond they were completely not ready for. The guy across from me asks me if I’m skiing alone.
Him: Right on. You can a lot done that way.
Me: I suppose.
Silence. But it’s not an awkward silence. There’s silence between us because his friends have returned and he has no more use for me and my witty banter. I kind of want them to invite me to ski with them just so I can say, “No thanks, I got a lot to get done today.” Assholes.
We go to dinner at a fancy restaurant. The cheapest bottle of wine on the menu is $89. When the sommelier asks us if he can help us choose the wine, my mother feels the appropriate response is, “I’m still looking. I’m the wine expert of the family.” No mother, I believe he’s the wine expert. As he leaves us with an uncomfortable chortle, my mother leans over and says, “I wasn’t going to let him trick us into ordering a $150 bottle of wine.” Good work, mother. You have thwarted the sommelier’s trickery.
The dinner is mostly uneventful other than the brief conversation in which my mother accuses us of hating her because we didn’t thank her for convincing the hotel to buy a shower caddy for our shower. In order to diffuse the situation quickly, we thanked her and ordered another $62 carafe of wine.
It’s 11:30pm and I haven’t finished the Bibliography. It’s due today. But I’m exhausted and just want to forget the day. Sleep seems the best way to do that. I would take a swig of my father’s Canadian Club whiskey, but I have standards. Sometimes. Today is one of those sometimes.