Mint Conditions & Being My Mother

At some point in woman’s life, she has the cliche epiphany of “ I AM my Mother.” Where she might fear it, I have come to embrace it, only because my reflected actions are cool. If they sucked, I would probably stick my tongue out with disgust, yet it’s unlikely that my mother (of her caliber) would do anything uber lame.

My realization came to me, big surprise here, in a bar.

Let me back up. I was in Whistler, snowboarding with a group of my friends. It was only my second day of the season, and I was dragging. My list of grievances was long (including tight boots/numb foot, poor visibility, the temperature, laziness), and rather than hiking with the crew, I opted for some “me” time to take a couple runs on my own before lunch. I don’t particularly like skiing/snowboarding solo, but I was too lazy/numb to hike and figured it best I went it on my own — knowing I’d likely make it half a run then call it quits.

After fiddling and refiddling with my boots and bindings, I took off down a familiar run. I have a tendency to not only talk to myself while riding, but also sing – current soundtrack includes Hit Me Baby, One More Time by Britney Spears. If you see/hear Britney floating down a mountain, don’t be confused, it’s likely just me trying to fend off boot pain or fear with the soothing sounds of 1998. While riding the lift back up, I silently argued (there were others on the chair) with myself about doing another run while enduring strong wind-gusts. The temperature detoured me, and I headed for the lodge.

FYI: I believe that every lodge is equipped with leather chair, a huge fireplace and lots of space. This is not an accurate representation of ANY lodge I have visited in my life, yet I still continue to dream it.

As I approached, I noticed an entrance to the right for a bar. It was this, or the main entrance in front of me. I’d only done one run and the guys were off hiking. Hmm, plenty of time for a little something to warm up my hands and brain. With this, I headed to the bar where I quickly peeled off my snow-laden jacket and gained the bartenders attention. A single Bailey’s and coffee and I was in business. It was a Thursday, which meant there would be American football on that night and my fantasy football team (which I know nothing about) would hopefully be racking up a few points. I stared at the screen with intent, hoping they’d take a quick hockey brake and tell me who was playing that night, when the gent next to me started talking.

“You follow hockey?” he asked.
“No.” I replied, my eyes steady on the screen.

Apparently this warranted a chuckle, thus interrupting my sports-related concentration and encouraging me to look at Sir Laughs A Lot.

“I follow American football because I have a fantasy team and was hoping I could figure out who’s playing tonight.”

He filled me in, and we proceeded to discuss our fantasy teams and why mine was better (maybe? it was really all talk..) I’d already asked the bartender to add an additional shot to my Bailey’s and coffee because I could taste the coffee and that was no acceptable. Upon looking outside I saw a few bodies, but mostly what looked like solidified coldness. This was the moment that I thought to myself, “man, I am so happy I’m not outside..” and realized that I had become a ski bunny just like my mother. Even though I removed the fur from my coat hood, I still personified her 100%, I was sitting in the bar chatting up all who surrounded me and drinking soul warming coffee wasn’t I? Realizing I had become lost in my socialization skills and liquor, I confirmed with the bartender that it was only ten ’till twelve and if he were to meet someone for lunch it would obviously be in the bar. I relaxed, and my new friend ordered me Round Two: Mint Conditions per my recommendation. Ah, the life.

Around noon I started to shift. Where were my friends? Surely nothing bad had happened while hiking, it wasn’t like they were venturing out into the back country. It was here that I felt the need to ask the bartender, “excuse me? If you were meeting friends – where would you meet them?”

 He replied, “why..the BAR of course!”

Of course! So, there I sat with my back to the rest of the lodge and my eyes glued to the drink warming my body (and soul.)

Minutes later, I turned around to see two of my friends hustling through the lodge. Even though I was yelling at the top of my lungs – something my new friends truly enjoyed, I am sure, more than their facial expressions showed – no one heard me. Which meant that I went bonding (attractive, no.) through the lodge, boots unlaced, screaming.

Personally, I would put that on the mint conditions.

As it happens, the crew had been eating, and finished eating, and manfriend was having a minor freak out about my whereabouts. Which, btw, considering we spend a fair amount of time together including many ski days, I assumed he would be the first person to suggest looking for me in the bar.

How does this tie in? Well, once upon a time my mother was a ski bunny. She wore the fancy white fur trimmed one pieces, the high wasted ski pants that showed her curves and the puffy ear muffs that made her look so 80’s Madonna’s cone bra couldn’t hold a candle to her.

And while being too cute for the mountain, she dislocated her clavicle (look it up.) Rather than bitching, moaning and retreating to her room – she did the only practical thing she could think to do.

She enlisted the valet/bellhops/idiots that drooled over her butt to help her schelp snow and ice to the base of a lift. As she couldn’t lift, with the dislocation and all, I imagine this meant she mostly purred orders at them. Which they happily fulfilled. When her friends came down from a day of ‘shredding the gnar’ – formerly known as ‘skiing’ – she was perched on a lawn chair ready Vogue, sipping champagne and nibbling on hor d’oeuvres.

Though my way was a little more conventional, it was on that bar stool, looking out to the gusts of snow and wind that I thought, “Shut the front door*, mom would do the same thing.

*Please note, I do not actually say “shut the front door” on a daily basis. However, being that words like fuck and shit aren’t family friendly…wow…really just blew that one, didn’t I?