On Spring Break in Whistler at the age of 30 with my Parents, or, What is Happening to Me? Day 5
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 feel guilty writing this because this morning my mother got up and made breakfast. Eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee. And here I am haranguing my parents for simply aging. Shouldn’t it be that as I get older I would begin to have more in common with my parents. That we would be able to have better conversations, share more life stories and teach each other about what we know? Instead, more and more I ask, who are these people and why don’t I know them? These eggs are fucking delicious.
I can’t believe my luck. This does not make any sense at all. There she is. The attractive bartender with great legs from last night. She’s a snowboarder. Fuck. A lot of snowboarders think we skiers are tools. Does this ski jacket make me look fat? I suddenly hear my brother’s voice from 3000 miles away, “No, your body makes you look fat.”
Picking up chicks while skiing is sort of a family tradition. It’s something my brother and I would do while skiing when we were growing up. We were young and impetuous, we got bored easily, especially on the towering 700-foot mountains of Boyne, Michigan. Shit, most of time we skied on local Detroit area landfills. If we weren’t trying to perfect daffys and spread eagles, we were trying to pick up ski bunnies. I use “pick up” liberally. I should say we followed ski bunnies and tried to get them to giggle and in turn follow us. If we were feeling particularly bold, we would try to finagle a seat next to one on the chairlift. A rare occurrence. And yes, back in the 90s, women skiers were still for the most part ski bunnies. They wore black tight, stretchy legging-type pants, and short ski jackets with fur collars that were sure not to cover their perfect behinds.
This snowboarder girl is by no means a ski bunny. Ski bunnies, by and large, don’t exist anymore. There are a few of them here and there, mostly in places like Aspen and Vail. These are the women who go by the moniker Cougar, in other, slightly warmer environs. This girl with the great legs is serious business. She’s walking straight towards me, her baggy and saggy, white snow pants swishing in the crisp morning air. She’s donning a blue, red, and white plaid jacket that’s pretty sweet. I’m so fucking envious of her duds. My 4-year-0ld 686 jacket makes me look like I just arrived in a hot tub time machine. I smile and wave. Really, Kiren, you think she’s going to recognize you? Of course she’s gonna recognize me, she was looking and smiling at me last night. You’re an idiot. She’s a bartender, you were a patron. Fuck you. All of that just happened in my head. She smiles, but awkwardly, no wave. Definitely doesn’t remember me. No problem, just say hi and remind her. God, just writing this depresses me. I’ll cut to the chase. I don’t say hi, I don’t remind her of how I know her. Because, in fact, I don’t know her. This whole situation is ludicrous, and I’m fucking ridiculous.
She’s walking just ahead of me and then turns into a ski/snowboard shop. I should go in. No, that would be stalking. No it wouldn’t. You can buy something. Handwarmers, for instance. Handwarmers are for pussies. You are a pussy. Fuck you. I walk right on by. What are the chances of running into her later on the slopes? Spoiler alert: Zip, Zero, Zilch. My life is completely fucking normal. And that is depressing.