There are also other factors to be considered. M and I have been together for awhile now and I feel I know him pretty well. However, what if out of the blue he becomes someone I don't know, someone who decides it's perfectly fine to burp at the table or suddenly remembers every knock knock joke he's ever heard? Would he pore over his share of the group dinner bill like an oncologist reading a bone scan? Scary thoughts. Very scary.
Still, five days in Breckenridge, during the hottest month of summer sounded so good, especially considering I love the people we would be traveling with. It was a no brainer- we were going.
We all met at the airport the morning of the trip, fresh faced and ready to take a break from the sweltering Florida heat. I noticed that every one but myself was dragging golf clubs. Huh? Wait- this is supposed to be a vacation. I had pictured us meandering Main street looking in the shop windows and killing time till noon when vacation day drinking officially begins. Perhaps I would drop in and buy a 300.00$ sweater with a crocheted moose on it that would reside in the back of my closet until the Florida mold and mildew finally turned it into a pile of wet wool, causing me to scream for M to remove the dead squirrel from my closet and make me rethink my deep belief that an exterminators' sole desire in life is to go through my underwear drawer or at the very least, my bathroom cabinet where I hide my Rogaine and Nair facial hair remover. (How can so many different things be going on on one head?)
I pictured leisurely lunches, and long naps before dinner. Perhaps there had been a miscommunication? I mean M told me to bring my hiking boots, (purchased like six years ago for some unknown reason,) but I thought that was to just look cool when we were walking through town. This was starting to look a bit ominous.
One plane ride and a 3 hour car ride later, we arrive at the beautiful rustic condo in the mountains. I immediately begin to unpack, and by unpack I mean drag two carry ons full of skin lotions and make up and one bag of volumizing hair products into the bathroom. I begin to line up my products: there is the anti aging products, the age camoflauging products and the "you're already wrinkled so just wear this" products. There is hardly any room left on my side for my low heat blow dryer and special soft hair brush, guaranteed not to rip hairs from my scalp. I am sharing the bathroom with the beautiful F, who is 30 years old, has an ass like two ripe cantelopes, gorgeous long black hair and a shiny unlined face. On her side of the vanity is a comb, a toothbrush and a tube of clear lip gloss. Ugh.
Over dinner that evening, which consisted of a cheeseburger the size of a 10 pound kettle bell and onion rings, of which I picked off and ate only the fried batter, our vacation agenda began to take shape. Tomorrow morning, 9am golf. The following morning a hike/mountain climbing. I agreed to come along on the golf outing as 1. I hate to be a party pooper and 2. M promised I could drive the cart. I had never been on an actual golf outing, although I lived on a golf course for several years and many mornings woke up to "GET IN THE FUCKING HOLE!" which had me very concerned until I realized it was coming from outside.
Morning comes and I am trying to figure out what to wear for cart driving. I was told there are rules regarding denim, which is a shame as my Mossimo jeggings from Target hide a myriad of body flaws. I find something suitable and we are off.
We arrive at a golf course that even I find breathtaking. Mountains surround us and the air really does smells different. It is what clean would smell like if it were a smell. I begin to feel very good about life. I picture M and I selling our waterfront Florida home and buying a cabin here in the clean mountains. Yes. This is what life is about.
We pull up to HOLE 1. Everyone disembarks, (except for me, ) I am still in the la la zone. I am teary eyed thinking of my beautiful children. I miss my parents. I want to call my sisters. Life is so short. Look at the clouds. OMG, wildflowers!! I love these people I am with. I even love the other golfers out there, who are with me in this one moment of beautiful time.
Time passes and we stop and start and drive along beautiful winding paths. Everyone is chasing after the little ball. It's sort of getting a little hot now, but that's okay. I'm not going to complain. Hours must have passed, I am sure we are getting close to done now, and very soon we will all pile into the club for a fabulous lunch and I will tell my dear friends how I enjoyed sharing this amazing experience with them. We pull up to the next hole. The sign says, HOLE 3. WTF??? Dudes. Seriously? Now this is getting fucking crazy.
We are sitting and waiting for a foursome of women ahead of us. They look ridiculous in those idiotic skirts. I hate them. I am hot. I am hungry. I am not....going to....make it....another 15 holes. God what have I done to deserve this? The stolen mood ring from Sears again? Get over it! That was 40 years ago.
Suddenly, I see through my sweaty haze a cart approaching. There is a beautiful girl driving it. It seems to be loaded with...could this be a mirage?...liquor bottles. Then I remembered I had heard tales of "cart girls." My day just got brighter.
I made it through with the help of a little day drinking and a small package of Cheezits, also furnished by that golf course angel, our cart girl. Later that day, as my friends relived each and every hole, shot by shot, I just thought of that beautiful sight, not of mountains and wild flowers, but of a young girl in a golf cart who came to me in my desperate time of need.
Stay tuned: "Climb a mountain," they said. "You'll love it," they said.
Coming soon, "THE HIKE"
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