Alison Berkley: Holiday cheer, pagan-style |

Alison Berkley: Holiday cheer, pagan-style

‘Tis the season for men with big, long, skis to come out of the woodwork, to fall from the sky like big, fat, flakes. Forget about the holidays, ski season has arrived. The parade of men starts now. Fa-la-la!

Thank god, that’s all I can say. Off-season had me running back and forth between the J Bar and the gym for entertainment. I joined Netflix and thought getting DVDs in the mail was like the coolest thing ever.

I quit my day job so I could stay home and give my codependent dog lots of love and attention. I ironed my bed (that’s what I get for spending so much money on “fine” Italian linen, which wrinkles as soon as you breathe on it). I came up with reasons to go to Glenwood. I went out for long, leisurely breakfasts with my friend Pig Boy every chance I got until I was eating eggs benny from the Weinerstube in my sleep.

The point is, now that the lifts have finally opened, we can all go back to being completely entertained for months on end without giving it a second thought.

It’s snowing men!

Forget about Santa Claus, the bearded men in red and white I want coming down my chimney (so to speak) are Ski Patrol. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Gruff and unshaven, Ski Patrol are the manliest of men and just reek of authority, always carrying some heavy tool or pole or rope or other over their shoulder. Move over, Jesus. Christmas should be all about the guy with the big white cross on his back ” soooo much better than that gruesome hanging-from-nails thing ” I never really got that. Anyhoo, the Ski Patrol can bring presents to my house anytime.

Speaking of men in uniform, the new ski school outfits are splendid. Even though I am a little disappointed they’re not Prada, Polo RLX is nothing to scoff at. Neither are those shorter jackets and aluminum-colored pants ” so much more revealing!

After working on the slopes day after day, these guys are basically a fleet of tight butts and lovely hamstring muscles with goggle tan lines that make their cheekbones look all high and chiseled like Brad Pitt’s. What girl wouldn’t love to get some of that under her tree?

Ski and snowboard instructors now wear the same uniforms, but don’t let it fool you ” underneath are two very different animals. It is my very biased opinion that snowboarding instructors blow the ski guys away in the sexiness department, and that comes through no matter if they are wearing the same clothes or not. I mean, you can put horns on a bear, but it’s never going to be a reindeer, right?

We lost our snowboard program director Eric Smith to cancer last year, but I am happy to report he left behind a legacy of what can only be described as the Hardcore Swagger. You know, that walk that says, “Follow me, I know where it’s at.” He was the King of Cool and everyone knew it.

His friend Kevin put it like this at his memorial service last year: “I want to dress like Eric. I want to talk like Eric. I want to ride like Eric. I want to be like Eric.”

In addition to providing us with ample snow for an epic season opener (thank you, thank you, thank you), Eric has somehow blessed the snowboard pros of Snowmass with his signature casual confidence. You don’t just pick that shiz up at one of those early season training clinics ” these boys seem to be walking on air and would make Eric proud in every way.

Best of all, there are like hundreds of them swarming all over the place, behind mirrored goggles, strutting around the village with their boards under one arm, like little warriors in their shiny red ” er, I mean silver ” helmets. Just know that if you’re a really good girl this year, these boys will probably want nothing to do with your stocking. Now that is something to aspire to!

Don’t get me wrong, ski instructors are also very cute and tend to be a lot taller than their sideways sledding counterparts, but when it comes to skier boys, you gotta love the Highlands Guy.

Forget about neat little uniforms, HG struts around in the same Gore-Tex pants and jacket he’s been wearing since he moved here a hundred years ago. Even though the seat of his pants are being held together by duct tape, there is nothing sexier than knowing there’s a breeze blowing through his undie-garments all the live long day.

He wears those fat skis I mentioned earlier, and they make him look bigger and better, like he’s rolling through town in a Cadillac Escalade. He hikes the bowl at least three times a day and chances are he could lift you up in his arms and throw you over his head like Godzilla. Who cares if he smells bad and never shaves the back of his neck? He rips and you know he’ll give you plenty of his equipment this Christmas. I mean, what more could a girl ask for than that?

Being Jewish and all, I could care less about Christmas lights and trees and the most annoying ever songs on the planet. My holiday starts as soon as the snow flies, as soon as those lift lines start filling up with boys like god’s little presents-to-me (See, I can totally be religious). The best part is it lasts longer than one day or even eight. I’ve got the rest of the season to celebrate.

[The Princess wants everyone to know that she will not be offended if you want to buy her a Christmas gift. E-mail your season’s greetings to her]

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