Making Predictions

Where Does the Night Lead, 

and

Will he Call Me in the Morning?

Ambiguity of meaning, absence of commitment; they (whoever they are) say both are rampant in today's society of young 20s somethings living the single life. I can't speak for my entire generation, but I've got to say a lifestyle with both of these characteristics certainly flourishes in Vail.

But...perhaps we aren't as bad as our cross Atlantic counterparts.

My friend Andy recently told me, “You know, in Europe, when you kiss someone when you're out at night, you're having sex.”

Ah

“So that's why I pissed off so many guys on my Eurotrip...”

Call me a prude, but I've made out with far more dudes than I've brought home to bed. A make-out session in Vail means nothing. Right?

I decided to poll a few Vail girlies to address the question:  

Just what DOES dictate how the night is going to end?

First question: If you kiss someone, does it mean they're invited home with you?

A: Absolutely not.

“It means I like your face and I want to lick it.”

-Anonymous answer (from Beth)

I also wanted to know, “What about if a guy buys you a drink? Do you owe him anything.”

After some serious consideration, the answer was almost always the same, “Well, maybe some conversation. You know, to be polite.”

So, “You aren't more or less likely to go home with a guy if he buys you a drink.”

Apparently, if a guy does buy a girl a drink, it's no guarantee of sexual gratification, however, if he doesn't buy her a drink, it doesn't appear that he “takes her seriously.”

Well, that's fitting somehow, because if a girl does take a guy home, to make-out or more, there's no guarantee of a phone call.

I suspect that's true in Europe as well.

My friend Lee has this to say on the matter, “I never really go on dates, but every now and then the guy I go home with happens to buy me dinner.”

So in conclusion, predictions on how the night will end cannot be made on kisses given, nor drinks bought.

“Sex and things like sex—things people pretend they regret—weren't about a decision made in a heated moment. The decision is made when you leave the house, when you get on a plane, when you dial a number.”

-Dave Eggers How We Are Hungry

Guys, that about sums up the odds.

A Salute to Girl's Night

Now...

You would think, that, living in a place called 'All Male Valley,' finding a significant other would be fairly easy. After all, one need only step into a bar (any bar) on Bridge Street and observe the number of women (countable on one hand) and compare it to the number of men (many many more) to see that the odds, are pretty good. I've heard various ratios ranging from 2:1 to 10:1. Personally, I agree with the most commonly quoted ratio, which is 7 dudes to every 1 chic. At least, that's what it feels like when I go to meet a friend at The George and have to tell three guys that I am waiting for my boyfriend to arrive...

Point is, the odds are in our favor.

This is why drinking in Vail can be quite inexpensive, if you happen to be a chic.

I do not take advantage of this. Very often.

Why, then, I wonder, are so many of my female friends single?

I decide to look at the math. Is the ratio simply a myth?

Findings:

TheBadNews:

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the ratio is nowhere near 7. It's more like 1.39. That's less than 2 to 1 folks. Plus, as far as male to female ratios are concerned, the town of Vail only ranks 14^th in Colorado. 446^th in the nation. (Perhaps I should find these higher ranking towns and consider moving there??)

TheGoodNews:

Apparently, serious data shows that Vail is an excellent location to find a husband. The likelihood of finding an employed, educated, fit, and affluent bachelor is greater in the valley than in any comparable ski town in Colorado.***

Interpretation:

The facts seem to suggest that there are more guys than gals in this place, though the ratio is not as large as initially hypothesized, and that theoretically, these guys should by and large be some classy kids. The data, however, does not take into consideration the transient nature of many of Vail's residents. The census cannot keep track of the swarms of seasonal workers that live here 6 months of the year, nor the crowds of tourists that spend anywhere from a weekend to several months visiting. This unknown variable may very well account for the anecdotal ratio evidence.

Conclusion:

While the ratio may not be as great as 7 to 1, the odds are still certainly good. Therefore, the reason my girl friends are single must be something else. Obviously, it's not the quality of the chics. I know I am awesome, and so are my friends. I'm going to go ahead and generalize here and say that there are lots of brilliantly chill and fantastic single ladies in this town.

It's gotta be the dudes.

Sorry guys.

The Odds might be Good, but the Goods are Odd.

***Now if I were in school, I would check all these facts alongside important academic papers that are peer reviewed and stuffy and everything, but as this is a blog, and 37% of all social media statistics are made up on the spot, I'm going to present them as truth. I will, however, point out that the sites claiming Vail as a great place to find a husband are made by local real estate agents.

Colorado Fourteeners

“The trick to climbing 14ers in Colorado, is to do it with your sea-level friends.

 That way you feel like you are in really great shape.”

-Journal, January 2013

Thinking in terms of altitude is a studied art. I hail from Minnesota, a state where the highest peak is a whopping 2,000 feet. Altitude sickness? That was something climbers on Mt. Everest got when they tried to ascend without their oxygen masks.

But when you live in the mountains, altitude takes on a level of importance, mostly in terms of bragging rights.

Now, when I run into someone from Utah, at some point I'll probably say, “Cool, so what's your elevation there?”

“Oh? Is that all? Yeah we're at 8,250. 10,000 at Mountaintop.”

Or

At yoga class in Boulder, “Well, I would be breathing hard but, I'm from Vail...gotta couple thousand feet on you.”

And, of course the drink effect...

I return back to sea-level Minnesota and am perfectly justified in downing a bottle of wine, “Altitude training,” I tell my friends, “I can drink like a rockstar.”

Yes

Coloradians, and the state's transient orphans like myself, are quite proud of the height of their mountains, in particular those mountains that peak above 14,000 feet. It's generally agreed that there are 54 of them, most with non-technical climbs to the summit. There are a dozen a stone's throw from the town of Vail. Last winter, I hear the scoop on these nearby 14ers and vow to climb at least ten over the summer.

I climb one.

At the top, I snap a picture and send it to my father, with the text, “First 14er! Whoot!”

“Wow! 14 miles,” he texts back. “That's a long way!”

“No dad, 14 thousand feet. Up.” I respond. Duh.

I am certain I will climb more, but summer ends and it starts to get cold so I put off my hiking plans till next summer.

So I thought.

A few friends from Minnesota came to visit this week, and they wanted to climb a 14er.

“Want to climb Quandary?” they ask.

“What? You mean in the snow?”

Do I want to take the day off of work? YES. Do I want to spend it waking before the sun and dragging myself up a snow and ice covered mountain in the freezing cold? NOT REALLY.

But I agree to go, after all, I don't see these friends all that often and I want to show how much of a bad ass I am now that I live in Colorado.

The first mile up the trail I am suffering. They may be from sea-level, but my friends are all ultra-marathon runners. I am red in the face, breathing hard and struggling to keep up. I should have stayed in bed.

Fortunately, I was just experiencing the disinclination mile: the first mile of any long event that always seems to suck big, thereby making you disinclined to engage in such events. The good news is, once you get over the hump...it gets a lot better.

This happens around mile two. We are just passing over tree line and pause to take a look out. You can't find this in Minnesota. It has turned into a a perfect day, warm and sunny. I feel endorphins start to kick in, and I am suddenly chatty Kathy, rambling and humming as we stalk up to the fake summit. (Whether or not this cheerfulness was appreciated my hiking companions I cannot say.) Either way, we all suffer together for the last 40 minutes to the top as the grade really gets steep, but then we crest and...wala!

Totally, completely, undoubtedly, worth it.

I vow to climb more 14ers. Seriously. You wanna bet on those odds?

Welcome Busy Season

“BAHH!” The scream interrupts my daily trudge into the work locker room. “I am nothing but a massaging machine!”

I give the poor woman a sympathetic smile, “I hear you,” I tell her. I myself have become a cookie baking, apple chopping, cake decorating robot. At a certain point in the midst of a fifteen consecutive day work stretch I lost all concept of the day of the week as well as the date.

What, it's Christmas? Why didn't you send out an announcement or something?

I'm not the only one.

The haggard look. The frayed nerves surfacing along the lines of the eyes. The occasional shout of frustration given with minimal provocation...the signs are everywhere. Hop on the bus and take a glance at the person next to you. Look at the face of your server next time you order a drink.

We the people who cater to the needs of the snow tourists, are tired.

Granted, the following is what I heard most of the off season, “Ugh, I am so broke I am scared to look at my bank account. There's no work in this entire town and soon I will be forced to eat my toenails.”

But...have you heard the saying “Too much of a good thing???”

We have limits.

On top of too many work hours, we are battling all the funky germs the influx of people have brought with them. I am currently drinking four cups of orange juice a day in an effort to stave off the flemy cough I hear across the village and eating several different types of multivitamins with every meal so that if I get the flu from my coworkers I will recover quickly enough to make it back to work the next day. 

To the tourists: We are so glad you are here, but don't forget we are people too.

To the diner who yelled at your server: You made her cry. I saw her in the kitchen and it was not pretty.

To the folks who don't get to live here: On days that I work a 12 hour shift, I still have time to go to a yoga class and then take a few runs on the best ski resort in the country with some of my best friends in the world. When it comes down to it, the odds are, despite a little busy season burnout, my life is better than your vacation.