I am wondering which of these two phrases would more aptly describe my third telemark ski class. This weekend, unlike the previous two, my class - three students and two teachers - headed to the back country, meaning that there were no chairlifts to whisk us to the top of the mountain. Beginning at an elevation of 10,800 feet, we had to hoof it up ourselves, on skis, carrying heavy backpacks filled with all the supplies we'd need. In mine I stowed nearly three liters of water, chocolate, cheese, a sliced apple and a sandwich, a down jacket, extra mittens and a hat, a first aid kit, and a mini-version of my wallet. To keep the skis from slipping we adhered skins to them - long strips of fuzzy fabric with very sticky glue on them and hooks on both ends.
In the back country there are no toilets, either. After spending many minutes putting on our boots and skis at the trailhead, an ordeal in and of itself, I really had to go. So did the two other women in my group. We skied over to a semi-private cluster of trees and the instructor proceeded to pull down her Gore-Tex pants and pee just inches away from me. I wasn't sure if smelling a stranger's urine was the most auspicious way to start the day.
"So, should I go right here?" I asked, not really wanting everyone to watch.
"Oh, do you need privacy?" she replied, as if that were a very strange thing. She zipped her pants and ambled out of the way.
I did my thing, storing the used toilet paper in a ziploc bag brought for this purpose. In the back country, one does not leave a trace. I also tried to cover my output with some snow. Frankly, I was just glad to have peed on the snow and not on my clothing, a hazard when you're wearing stiff ski boots and can't squat that far.
Off we went, up a very steep trail. It was so steep I got stuck. The other instructor, L. a kindly elfin-like man in his late 60s, broke a less steep path for me. Off I trudged, my lungs already searing. Would I make it through the day? I wondered. Then a skin came off one of my skis. I dreaded having to remove my ski, re-attach the skin and put the ski back on. The bindings on telemark skis are tricky, as is bending over to affix the bindings. It is hard for me to get my body low enough to reach the binding and then to find the proper leverage to lock the damn thing in place.
This was going to be a long day.
L. looked at my skin and proclaimed that one of the hooks wasn't big enough, which is why it was slipping off my ski. He said we'd have to tape it on.
"I have duct tape," I said, eager to demonstrate that I had some back country expertise, even if I was physically unfit for a high altitude climb. Years ago, during wilderness training with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I learned to roll duct tape around my water bottle so I'd have it in case gear failed and needed to be patched together. I am happy to report that the duct tape was still sticky after spending 6-7 years wrapped around my bottle. I had removed my waterproof mitts and my fleece gloves to unpeel and tear the tape and when the repair was complete I could not find one of my fleece gloves - despite being black, and easily visible against snow, it apparently had vanished into thin air. Perhaps the mountain gods demanded a sacrifice for my safe passage? At least I had a spare pair in the pack, but it was not a confidence building moment to have lost something while standing still.
We continued our climb. Then my other skin fell off, but I decided to try to slip the hook back on and hope for the best. It occurred to me to be grateful for the failure of my rental gear as it gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. By this time the rest of our group had advanced further up the mountain, leaving me alone with L. and the chance for a private lesson. He patiently waited for me as I huffed and puffed up the slope, pausing every 10-15 steps to take deep breaths and prevent my heart from racing out of my body.
As other skiers passed us on the ascent, they asked me if I was on my second run. Second run? I'd be lucky to have one run, meaning a chance to ski down the mountain. And a few skiers passed us twice as I trudged, one foot at a time, up to the top. These fit folks had already climbed up, skied down, and were coming back for more.
During my humbling and painstaking ascent I reminded myself that to ski in fresh powder is supposedly so amazing that it's worth the price of admission which, in my case, was the persistent feeling that I was about to expire. "White gold" is how another instructor had described fresh powder last weekend, looking love struck as she spoke. And, indeed, there had been a bit of a "white gold rush" to the mountains today, as snowflakes descended from the heavens. A few drivers, eager to be the first to expierience this glorious substance before others ruined it, zipped past us along a snowy stretch of highway. Minutes later we saw two nearly totaled cars on either side of the road; no one appeared to be hurt, but one car had its front fender hanging by a thread and the other had it's right side severely dented and was tipped into a ditch. So much for rushing.
After a few hours L. and I had climbed 1,000 feet, which I thought was a respectable gain in elevation for someone who probably didn't belong there in the first place. Now came the reward - skiing down. We removed our skis, stripped off the skins, stowed them in our packs and replaced our now skiable skis. There was more than a foot of untrammeled snow all around.
The trick to telemark skiing is to weight both skis equally to keep oneself moving. Otherwise, if the weight shifts to one leg, one gets stuck in the snow. While my brain understood this principle, my body wasn't getting it. In fact, it takes a lot of practice for the body to really "get" how to balance its weight. Unlike the packed trails of a ski area which provide the sense of ground under one's skis, and allows one to "cheat" a bit on telemark skis, in deep snow the balancing allows one to float. In my case I spent most of my descent either sinking or, after very brief stretches of ski-like movement, falling.
Mostly onto my face.
This didn't hurt a bit - the snow was piled high, after all - but pushing myself into an upright position further drained me of energy, leaving me with very little reserve to actually concentrate on my telemark technique. L. was a very good sport - praising me every time I managed to stay upright, moving and balanced - and telling me I did a good job everytime I got up from a fall. Sometimes I just lay in the snow for a few minutes to recover. He was OK with that, too.
Although it had been grey and snowing on our drive up, by the time we were halfway down the mountain the sun had come out, revealing a pristine winter wonderland: tall thin pines blanketed with snow, even taller ridges capped with wind-swept curves of powder, all under a bright blue sky. That alone was motivation to keep going.
Somehow I made it back down to the trailhead, my thighs and lungs protesting the entire time.
Will I do this again?
I won't rule it out.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Invigorating, Intricacies, Immense
Towards the end of 2008 I joined the Colorado Mountain Club and in mid-December received my welcome packet and some printed trip listings. One of them was for the Telemark Ski School, a series of classes over four weekends in January. Something inside me stirred and said, "Sign up". I read more of the fine print and it turns out that one was supposed to have taken a pre-qualifying ski trip in late November or early December. Those dates had long passed and the registration deadline for the school was looming. I called the school's director to find out if I might be able to enroll anyway. The number I dialed rang and rang and then went dead. I phoned the Mountain Club to ask them if I could sign up without speaking to the director - that was not an option, but they thought I could reach him by e-mail. After making contact, I asked the director what the qualifying trips were all about. Turns out they were to assess stamina rather than skiing ability. I have more of the former than of the latter. He also mentioned that the classes are at high altitude - 10,000-12,000 feet - a factoid which gave me pause. I told him a bit about myself and he said I could sign up.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Improbable, Impatience
On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.
Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).
It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.
Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.
"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."
Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.
"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."
By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.
"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.
We were headed home and that was all that mattered.
Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).
It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.
Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.
"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."
Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.
"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."
By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.
"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.
We were headed home and that was all that mattered.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Invitation, Impetus
On Wednesday, just a few days ago, an acquaintance invited me to the so-called "Fantastic Hosts' Party", which she described as a "wild dance/food/drink/socialize party downtown full of artists, corporate execs, and 'burners' ". I had no idea what that last word means but was too embarrassed to ask for clarification. She even told me where to find an inexpensive party dress. Being in adventure mode, I said sure, even though it meant I'd need to come up with an outfit in 72 hours or less. Somehow I'd managed to arrive at my age with fewer than a handful of skirts and dresses combined, and none of what I had on hand was suitable for a mid-December evening party.
I had some misgivings about the event itself - normally I don't seek out large and most likely loud gatherings - but being in new in town I figured it couldn't hurt to be exposed to this new scene. Maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised; if not, I'd don my anthropologist's hat and take it all in. And I decided that even if the party was a disappointment, at least I had an impetus to update my wardrobe. With the economy in a shambles, I was hoping to find some good deals if not some real steals.
Early Wednesday evening I set out on my mission. First I headed to Ross, the store that this woman suggested. They had dresses galore, many for less than $50 and several for less than $15. Either they didn't fit or they were poorly made, looking as though they might not survive even a single evening intact. I headed over to Macy's and made a beeline for the clearance racks. Nada. Then my eyes glanced upon a simple, below-the-knee sleeveless dress with a deep V-neck that culminated in a twist of fabric. Unlike many of the strappy and skimpy outfits, this dress looked wearable and comfortable. It fit like a charm. I checked the tag - it, unlike the majority of the merchandise, was not on sale, not even just a little bit.
I hung onto it and continued browsing, finding a few pair of black pants that were marked down. Rather than spend the next two days hunting for a less expensive dress, I decided to spend the money on this one. I got in line at the cash register, where a customer was trying to use a coupon from the local paper on her purchase. The clerk rang her up and the customer offered the remaining coupons to me and and another woman. When it was my turn, the clerk tallied my three items and they came to just $1.62 more than the amount required to use a coupon for $50 off the total. I felt as if the Universe had conspired to help me find a reasonably priced dress in less than two hours, no mean feat for an indecisive and picky shopper like me. And wanting to bring my bill down even further, I opened a Macy's credit card to save another 20%.
I had some misgivings about the event itself - normally I don't seek out large and most likely loud gatherings - but being in new in town I figured it couldn't hurt to be exposed to this new scene. Maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised; if not, I'd don my anthropologist's hat and take it all in. And I decided that even if the party was a disappointment, at least I had an impetus to update my wardrobe. With the economy in a shambles, I was hoping to find some good deals if not some real steals.
Early Wednesday evening I set out on my mission. First I headed to Ross, the store that this woman suggested. They had dresses galore, many for less than $50 and several for less than $15. Either they didn't fit or they were poorly made, looking as though they might not survive even a single evening intact. I headed over to Macy's and made a beeline for the clearance racks. Nada. Then my eyes glanced upon a simple, below-the-knee sleeveless dress with a deep V-neck that culminated in a twist of fabric. Unlike many of the strappy and skimpy outfits, this dress looked wearable and comfortable. It fit like a charm. I checked the tag - it, unlike the majority of the merchandise, was not on sale, not even just a little bit.
I hung onto it and continued browsing, finding a few pair of black pants that were marked down. Rather than spend the next two days hunting for a less expensive dress, I decided to spend the money on this one. I got in line at the cash register, where a customer was trying to use a coupon from the local paper on her purchase. The clerk rang her up and the customer offered the remaining coupons to me and and another woman. When it was my turn, the clerk tallied my three items and they came to just $1.62 more than the amount required to use a coupon for $50 off the total. I felt as if the Universe had conspired to help me find a reasonably priced dress in less than two hours, no mean feat for an indecisive and picky shopper like me. And wanting to bring my bill down even further, I opened a Macy's credit card to save another 20%.
The following day I realized that I didn't have an appropriate coat to wear over the dress. My Gore-tex and down jackets just wouldn't fly. Back to Macy's I went for a more thorough look. Bingo - I found a faux lambswool cropped evening jacket that, with my newly opened Macy's card, would also be 20% less. Done.
On Friday, although I had managed to pull together an outfit, my enthusiasm for attending this event was starting to fall apart. For one thing, there had not been subsequent communication from my acquaintance about how she or her boyfriend - he was one of the 18 "Fantastic Hosts" - were going to get me my invitation, required for entry. And not knowing the precise address of the party, I couldn't easily invite someone to go with me. I called this woman to check in.
She made it clear that it was her boyfriend's responsibility to physically deliver the invitation to me - she wasn't going to get involved beyond giving me his cell phone number. While I respected her need to create some boundaries for herself around his last minute behavior, I couldn't help but feel that she was blowing me off; after all, she was the one who had told me about the event. When I suggested that maybe we could all head over there together, and therefore he could simply hand me my ticket at that time, she said she wasn't sure what their schedule would be. In other words, maybe I'd see them there, or maybe I wouldn't.
Huh.
In the meantime, I had mentioned my dress quest to a few artists in my studio building and one of them recommended that I check out Colorado Mills, a group of outlet stores. Only a 15 minute drive away, and with nothing else on my calendar, I figured I'd do some more due diligence. Just as I pulled onto Highway 6 to head towards the stores, my cellphone rang. It was the boyfriend, asking me if I'd be at home in 20 minutes so he could give me this prized invitation. Sorry, I said, I'm heading West and will be gone a few hours. Then he suggested stopping by later that evening. I told him that I had to get up the next morning for a yoga class so he could swing by up until 11pm. He asked me if I do text messaging - I said my cellphone plan doesn't cover it and I'd prefer a quick phone call to let me know when he was on the way.
At the outlet stores - even Nieman Marcus and Saks - they were practically giving the clothing away. I had never seen so much couture for so little cash, relatively speaking. Dresses that normally sell for several hundreds were discounted to the low three digits. And there were a few luxury items whose prices had temporarily dipped into the double digits, thanks to special Friday evening offers. In that respect, I had chosen the perfect time to visit. A few hours later I left with a long knit skirt, some tights, a funky royal blue short-sleeve coat and some gifts. Back home, I went to sleep without hearing from the boyfriend.
On Saturday, the day of the party, I went to yoga, enjoyed a manicure, had some lunch and got ready to go to a "Change is Coming" meeting in my neighborhood. At around 3pm I called the boyfriend to let him know that I'd be turning off my phone for a few hours and that hopefully we'd connect somehow. He was good to his word - sometime between 4pm and 6pm he had managed to squeeze the invitation into my supposedly airtight mailbox. I checked out the address. I was in luck - this bash was within walking distance of my apartment. Being someone that prefers to speak to people over the phone, I called the boyfriend to thank him for the invite and to find out when he and my acquaintance might be arriving. He was non-committal, but later sent me a text message saying 10:30 p.m.
My inner reaction?
"Whatever."
Although I am only a few years older than this couple, I feel like I'm from a different generation if not another planet altogether. From what I've read about the contemporary 30-something social scene, it is perfectly acceptable to engage in dynamic, last-minute plan making and plan breaking, all possible with the aid of text messaging. I grew up with a different model for social interaction - you agree on a time and place and a way of getting in touch if something comes up. To me, this whole party situation felt non-committal, if not slightly rude. Indeed, this fellow was one of the Fantastic Hosts yet was not planning to make an appearance until after the party was underway.
I realized that if I wanted to salvage any fun from the evening I'd need to refrain from indulging in judgmental and negative thoughts and stay focused on the upside: a chance to dress up, check out the scene, enjoy some wine, meet people and dance. I also realized that I could simply choose not to go at all. Perhaps I'd already received the full benefits of the invitation: inexpensive yet high quality clothing that I'd enjoy for a long time.
In the end, I decided to go. As I suspected, the venue was loud and crowded and many people - including women - had chosen not to dress up at all. While I don't regret my purchases, I was a bit disappointed that my acquaintance had given me some inaccurate intelligence on what to wear. While waiting in the long line at the bar for a glass of red wine, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Molly who, it turned out, was also looking around for her friends. I had not spotted mine. When I mentioned that I had just moved to Denver she said, gesturing towards the crowd behind us, "Don't worry, not everyone in this city is a poser. There are some down to earth people in town, too."
Ah, posers.
Could it be that my new acquaintances were of that ilk, despite my hopes to the contrary?
At around 11:20 or so, amidst the din of this bash, located in a vacant multi-story building, I violated my no text messaging rule to contact the boyfriend to see if they had arrived. "Not yet," came the reply. As it approached midnight, snow began to fall and, with my acquaintances nowhere in sight, I decided to call it a night.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Instant Joy
This afternoon I went to my local post office to mail some mosaics and some show applications and to pick up a gift a friend had sent me. I arrived to find a long line of sullen looking people and only three clerks on duty. I passed some of the time by reading a copy of the neighborhood newspaper that had been left on the counter. As the line inched along it continued to expand behind me; by the time it was my turn the queue was nearly to the door.
I'm sure the people behind me were not pleased by the fact that I had four packages to mail, each requiring slightly different treatment and therefore additional conversation. The process was further slowed by the fact that the clerk was hearing impaired - so said the sign at the counter - and my effort to speak clearly didn't always succeed. Finally, after some repetition and clarification, all the packages had been metered and affixed with delivery confirmation stickers.
Then I presented the clerk with my slip of paper so she could retrieve the item my friend had mailed. I knew what it was, as my friend had e-mailed me the tracking information. After checking my ID the clerk went to the back, found the item, and returned to the counter bearing a hoola hoop, wrapped in brown paper for its postal journey, and with a diameter of more than three feet.
As I turned to leave, hoop in hand, I noticed big smiles on the faces of the people waiting patiently in the line behind me. Even one of the clerks broke into a grin. Seeing their reactions dissolved my own blah mood, and for a moment I was walking on air.
I'm sure the people behind me were not pleased by the fact that I had four packages to mail, each requiring slightly different treatment and therefore additional conversation. The process was further slowed by the fact that the clerk was hearing impaired - so said the sign at the counter - and my effort to speak clearly didn't always succeed. Finally, after some repetition and clarification, all the packages had been metered and affixed with delivery confirmation stickers.
Then I presented the clerk with my slip of paper so she could retrieve the item my friend had mailed. I knew what it was, as my friend had e-mailed me the tracking information. After checking my ID the clerk went to the back, found the item, and returned to the counter bearing a hoola hoop, wrapped in brown paper for its postal journey, and with a diameter of more than three feet.
As I turned to leave, hoop in hand, I noticed big smiles on the faces of the people waiting patiently in the line behind me. Even one of the clerks broke into a grin. Seeing their reactions dissolved my own blah mood, and for a moment I was walking on air.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Intimacy
Walking into Denver's downtown this morning to do some errands it occurred to me that a possible way of looking at the cause of the financial crisis is through the lens of intimacy or, in this case, the lack thereof. As I strolled in the sunshine I was thinking of intimacy as meaning detailed knowledge of and deep familiarity with a thing or a person. That is simply what arose in my head.
Lenders were not intimate with their borrowers' financial condition. Borrowers, in many cases, were not intimate with the terms of their loans or with their own financial positions. Both borrowers and lenders may not have been intimate with themselves, ignoring their doubts or misgivings about what they were doing. Heads of banks and financial institutions were not intimate with what their organizations were doing.
In other words, maybe it all boils down to an entire culture not paying attention to details, glossing over unpleasant facts, realities and twinges of inner discomfort in the quest for monetary success.
I wonder if this crisis will help some people wake up and start tuning in and, in an intimacy-building way, turning inward.
Lenders were not intimate with their borrowers' financial condition. Borrowers, in many cases, were not intimate with the terms of their loans or with their own financial positions. Both borrowers and lenders may not have been intimate with themselves, ignoring their doubts or misgivings about what they were doing. Heads of banks and financial institutions were not intimate with what their organizations were doing.
In other words, maybe it all boils down to an entire culture not paying attention to details, glossing over unpleasant facts, realities and twinges of inner discomfort in the quest for monetary success.
I wonder if this crisis will help some people wake up and start tuning in and, in an intimacy-building way, turning inward.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Introducing another Blog
New situations demand new blogs, so I've created a blog in which to reflect upon certain aspects of my experiences in Colorado. Please visit Adventures with Altitude to read about cultural and climactic differences and the occasional quirky observation about life at 5,280 feet.
For a change of pace, on this new blog the titles of posts begin with a variety of letters, not just "I", and often contain more than just a word or two. Do check it out I will be keeping this blog, too, and cross referencing posts when it makes sense to do so.
Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about leaving comments on either blog.
For a change of pace, on this new blog the titles of posts begin with a variety of letters, not just "I", and often contain more than just a word or two. Do check it out I will be keeping this blog, too, and cross referencing posts when it makes sense to do so.
Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about leaving comments on either blog.
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