Revised guide to the Aspen man |

Revised guide to the Aspen man

Last Friday night I found myself out with eight single women and it scared me.I didn’t plan it that way. It all started with a phone call to my friend Denise that went something like, “I could really use some girl time.” I just didn’t realize she had seven other friends who said the same thing.It was your typical Girls Night Out scene. We met at one of Aspen’s tragically hip and grossly overpriced restaurants, dressed in some version of the same tragically hip and grossly overpriced outfit. You know, dark designer jeans with heels and one of those camisole tops that looks like it could be lingerie but isn’t. (Think: a little bit of lace, some silk or satin, a low neckline and adjustable skinny straps). Everyone looked blow-dried, plucked, waxed, shined, and groomed to perfection as if “hanging with the girls” was the farthest thing from her true agenda.Since the food pyramid for single girls includes the coffee/nicotine group, the alcohol group, and the lean protein so-as-you-don’t-starve-to-death group, we shared two appetizers, two salads and one entree between eight of us. (It was like, “Is anyone going to eat that last red potato? Does anyone want the cucumber that’s left over from the ahi tartar?”) The entire group seemed to gasp with horror when the breadbasket was set on the table, as if there were rats teeming beneath the thick cotton napkins instead of fresh panini. I don’t know what the waiter was thinking, putting carbohydrates in front of our noses like that. Everyone knows single women would just as soon live on grilled chicken breast until their wedding day than succumb to spinster status because they’re too fat to attract a man. (Of course alcohol is OK. Don’t be ridiculous.)I sat there for hours over several rounds of whatever-comes-in-a-pretty-glass listening to the Distraught Aspen Female rant on and on about her latest heartbreak over some guy who waved more red flags in her face than a goddamn bullfighter. Rather than be honest and scream, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” and give her the name of my therapist, I just sat there and nodded politely and said feminist-ish things like “I feel your pain, sister,” which sounded to me like nails on a chalkboard, even though it was coming out of my own mouth.After like 57 drinks, we figured out it’s not us girls who are the problem. Ohhhh no. It’s the Aspen Men.Of course I realized that ages ago (as I stated in “Breaking Down The Aspen Men” in the July 9, 2002, edition of The Aspen Times). I’m sorry to report that two years later I’m two years older and the old Aspen saying, “the odds are good but the goods are odd” is still true. I don’t care if it’s wasted on pierced ears or however that saying goes. It’s time for the updated version, the new and not-so-improved list of Aspen’s Dysfunctional Men:The PartierThis type definitely tops the list and should not be considered the most eligible bachelor, but the most available one. These guys move in packs and can almost always be found at (choose one) J Bar/Cooper Street/Bentley’s/Red Onion before it’s dark out. They favor cheap beer and greasy bar food and do things your mother would hate, like put ketchup on their steak and/or hold their fork in their fist for shovel-food-in-face agility. Their idea of a “date” usually involves an unobstructed view of a large screen TV, a table filled with all of their bros, and a night that doesn’t end before last call. These guys are like little fish – there are plenty of them and they’re not very fulfilling. Spare yourself the hassle of reeling them in. Catch and release these little buggers before it’s you who gets fried.The PlayerIt’s amazing these guys get away with as much as they do, considering they’re about as subtle and complicated as the noon siren when it comes to alerting the immediate world to their true intentions. On the plus side, you can find out anything you need to know about this type in advance because chances are at least one girl at your table will know it all. When she tells you the truth about how he’s not to be trusted/horrible in bed/dumber than a box of rocks, you ignore her only to find out she was right. Next time you hear that siren blaring, you’ll know it probably should be cause for alarm.The Commitment PhobeIf you’ve ever been on Highlands Ridge in a whiteout with 50 mile-an-hour winds, you might be prepared for the confusion and turbulence that will inevitably result from the perennial “gray area” that comes with this type. He’ll lead you right up that mountain, talking about fresh powder and face shots and the promise of some sort of pleasure or reward. But as soon as you feel like you’re getting somewhere, he’ll want to back down, touting his fears and bad previous experiences and how he simply loves his mommy more than he loves you. It doesn’t matter if the snow is deep and light and would-just-be-perfect if … you could only see where the hell you’re going. Just know if you fall for this guy, you’re going down hard.The Guy Who’s LeavingEven though he’s lived next door for the past seven years, you never noticed him before. You discover you have 10 friends in common and went to neighboring boarding schools. He’s not what you would call a looker, but he says all the right things. He wants to buy a house and settle down. He wants to expand his horizons/travel the world/get his MBA from Harvard. He wants you to know that he is on his way to becoming a normal, decent, available guy. It’s a route that – we all should know by now – doesn’t involve Aspen.The Princess just put her own dysfunctional male (her chow/Lab mix Sebastian) on Prozac. Send e-mail to

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