Meredith C. Carroll: Aspen missed connections
You, telling a bewildered Brazilian couple in broken Spanglish about completing 192 burpees in six minutes in CrossFit. You wore Tevas and loudly announced your imminent Pyramid Peak ascent, despite it being 1 p.m., just landing in Aspen two days ago from sea level, staying out until closing time last night, and having consumed more whiskey than water since arriving. You were tall, yet clearly short in so many ways. Are you seeing anyone?
You were by the dancing fountain on Mill Street during yesterday’s Fourth of July parade. Our eyes met, although immediately after one of mine got nailed with a Tootsie Roll thrown by a 9-year-old girl passing by on a float. Directly after that my other eye was doused with a hard blast of water from a fire hose. An ambulance was delayed in rescuing me because the person driving in front of it couldn’t hear the sirens over the toots and whistles of the Carl’s Pharmacy steam calliope float. While I’m confident our chemistry was mutual, know that I may look a little different now — and not just because I’m wearing two pirate eye patches, but also because I burned the skin off my palms while trying to emulate the gymnastics kids in the parade (someone might have mentioned the kids know to wear gloves when doing cartwheels on 103-degree pavement, and that also I don’t know how to do cartwheels). Even if you don’t remember me, please come find me. Really. I can’t see where I am and need help.
You were Caucasian, wearing Sama Eyewear sunglasses while holding an embroidered yoga mat, drinking a green juice and lamenting the lack of portfolio diversity among Aspen’s eligible real estate developers. I complimented your Roger Vivier Sneaky Viv Fur-Lined Strass Mule sneakers for not being the same Miu Mius as all other women wear on their woke spiritual journeys. If you’re still taking the important yet controversial position that Aspen is better suited to the Hiltons than the Kardashians, meet me at the Caribou Club tonight. I’ll be the one in the Giuseppe Zanotti braided-leather-slide sandals with the gold bars, and no socks. Because, like you, diversity is my jam.
I was looking for the Aspen Ice Garden. I thought you were it. Turns out, it was just the diamond on your finger. I’m still looking for the ice rink; can you point it out to me (although maybe with your other hand so we can eliminate further confusion)?
You were in line at Native Roots. I was bee-lining to the salon to fix my roots. I’d like to take you to dinner at my parents’ weekend home on Red Mountain. I haven’t pissed them off enough lately and you ought to do the trick.
You: Sipping water in Bootsy Bellows and discussing how your drug of choice is endorphins. My drug of choice also starts with an “e.” Will you marry me?
You missed your connection in Denver to St. Tropez because your flight out of Aspen was canceled. You threw an impressive tantrum at the gate and blamed the flight attendant for having been born. Now that you’re stuck here for another night, please respond and let me know how I can find you again. Specifically, I’d like to know where you’ll be dining tonight so I can watch you, a live human adult, tell your server, another live human adult, how much better you are than everyone else, but especially them.
We kissed under the fireworks last night. However, since the fireworks were canceled and are being stored in the Sheriff’s Office, the sheriff wants to know how we got in there. Call me.
You had so many ideas at the Aspen Ideas Festival. Unfortunately the Aspen Institute didn’t care to hear them since you were neither a panelist nor a ticketed attendee. You can talk my ear off anytime, although I think the cashier at Peach’s would prefer if you didn’t do it when it’s your turn on line. ***
You mouthed “namaste” to me and then knocked me in the head with your leg while attempting a half moon pose outside the music tent. I’m going to need you to pay for the hospital bill I incurred while getting treated for a concussion. Also, since I didn’t hear the concert due to your utter incompetence, can you please get me a recording of last night’s Overture to Candide? Thanks.
You missed me. My hair had just been blown out and I was freshly tanned. My outfit was casual yet clingy. You wore aviator sunglasses, an air of entitlement, and drove a Tesla. No, really, you missed me — but just barely. Next time please yield to pedestrians in the crosswalks on Main Street.
Follow Meredith Carroll on Twitter @MCCarroll. More at MeredithCarroll.com.
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