17 Years Out of Touch, I Dress Like a Douchebag Skier
The first time we went, he lent me his newest, best pair of boots. Last weekend, he had me try the old ones, which strangled my feet. So when Diego stopped at Mtn Mike's, across the street from the Squaw Valley parking lot, to rent a board, I picked up a pair of boots for $25.
The lady at the counter was taking an impression of my credit card and glanced at the rest of my gear, from my jacket to my pants.
"You want me to cut those off for you?"
"What?" She was glancing down at the two lift tickets I'd kept clipped to my belt loop, from our earlier trips up to Mt. Rose and Kirkwood. "Is this not the style anymore? Do I look like a tool?"
Apparently, yes, yes I did.
As this Masshole blog put it:
Once you turn 13 there is just no acceptable reason to do this. What are you trying to accomplish? To prove to people you ski? You think I give a fuck you went to Loon 2 weeks ago? You want a fucking cookie? Nobody cares.
The last time I went skiing was when I was 13. And back then, it was cool to rack up as many lift tickets as you could on your jacket. When I started snowboarding this season, I kinda did it in the spirit of a middle school kid: "Look, I'm going to Tahoe! A lot! I can snowboard now – am I cool?"
As the lady at Mike's got out her scissors and mercifully relieved me of my extra tags, and Rocco hid his face in his hands, I thought, "No tags, that's the secret! Now I might finally be cool."
Not a chance. But boarding, learning alongside my buddies, driving up to Tahoe and stopping at In 'n Out, has been more fun than I'd ever have looking cool.
