Aspen

We rolled into town in the evening on Monday, ripe from the road and raw from nights of fitful sleep and hours grinding asphalt and watching the liquid blur of road side signs and landscapes streaming at a steady rythm.  I was apprehensive about Aspen, concerned that the stigma of sacharrin blondes and wealthy cowboys would ring loud and true in every facet of life here, a frosted Stepford.  

In the days that followed, I realized that Aspen runs on a delicately balanced fuel, comprised of equal parts genuine locals and modest work force intermixed with the diamond draped fur coats and walking manequins that inject capital into the mountains.  For every tourist coated in mink weilding a bottomless purse and loads of pretentiousness, there is an  Aspen local rolling their eyes and waiting for powder, unconcerned with keeping up with the Joneses.  Just when I wanted to dismiss it as a concentrated, frozen version of everything I found contemptible about Greenwich, Aspen rocked me slowly back on my heels, unable to make a final judgment.  

We skied (or, rather, I attempted to, managing a controlled slide down the mountain) runs that dwarfed Killington and Stowe, curving through clouds of powder for what seemed like days.  We slipslid our way through town, stopping for coffee and peering into windows at local oil paintings thick with texture and brimming with vibrant colors.  We unleashed Kira into a field of snow, and watched her race around in delight.  We drank too much at Eric's and sloshed our way home, giggling and shivering under our puffy down coats.  We watched Sean build fires, and harassed Luke at work.  I panted my way up Smuggler, gasping in the altitude while geriatrics practically ran past me, talking on their cell phones.  

I tried to keep up, listening to Maggie's friends talk about riding, "pow-pow" and "steez", but felt like a square peg in every sense of the term.  Feeling like an old lady, I questioned the usefulness of terms that contained the same amount of syllables as the word from which it was derived (pow pow, powder? seriously...why?), and failed to see the attraction to tall tees that Meridith proclaimed looked like nightgowns.    Aspen is not for me; it is far too fashionable, and strives way too hard to be "current".  A girl like me, happier in a hoodie and sweats, really doesn't stand a chance in a town full of minks where Christmas never ends.  True to the cliche, it's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.  However, the allure of the town isn't entirely lost on me.  On New Year's, we venture up the staircase of a small party where women wear sparkly dresses and sip expensive champagne from flutes, discussing interior design and the upcoming elections. I strike up a conversation with a lawyer who switched jurisdictions to move out to the ski town, and ten years later couldn't be happier with his choice.  Letting the soft jazz and champagne inflitrate my mind, I mentally toy with the idea of a move, envision ski lessons and powder mornings, extended winters and daily cobblestone jaunts from home to work.  Slowly, the idea of me and Aspen as a couple permeates my thoughts, and I am flipping through the newspapers, seeing what's out there for a young intrepid attorney.   Somewhere between New Year's and my flight home, I land back on Earth and realize that running away, whether it's done in a semi-constructive manner (i.e. getting a job that is relevant to my field, yet in an extremely far off land) will get me nowhere.                                                                                                          

For someone who craves  continuity, I have to admit that the past few months have been a wash.  I flew from the tropics to the mountains, from beach side shanties and rural simplicity to cobblestone streets where US Weekly captures shots of Kate Hudson strolling merrily with her latte.  But in the throes of the extremes, I have been able to identify constants, ever present threads inextricably woven into the very fabric of my life.  My beautiful friends, whether it's my nearest and dearest, flying around the world and sending me packages, or sitting next to me on the chairlift, make my life what it is.  Aspen, for all of it's impossible beauty, would be empty without Maggie, Sean and Luke.  I realize that it is them that I'm truly craving, community, connections, not the skiing or the cobblestone streets lined with expensive nothingness. 

So as my time wound down, I sat in the hot tub, my eyes closed, allowing the falling snow to rest gently on my eyelids and sink softly into my skin, and let the past year or so soak in as well.  Life is different now: the house is empty, echoing only memories of a different time.  Connecticut is different, each phase of my life swept away with the seasons.  I am no longer a law student in transit, on the way to being a lawyer, and I no longer have the luxury of floating complacently to a date fixed somewhere in the future.  The bar was over, the year was over and it was time to face the reality that I created.  And now, with greater clarity I see that the creation wasn't painful, but rather a painstaking process.  I carefully carved out my future and was so afraid of failure that I was literally blocking my own path to success.  

After a year and a half of distractions, from emotional clusterfucks to a jaunt overseas, it took the cold mountain air to awaken me to the fact that playtime is essentially over, and no amount of travel could return me back to the consequence free comfort of academia.  People move, people move on.  And now it's my turn.