Friday, October 20, 2006

Get The Fuck Outta Sugarbush Day!

Drive south. As fast as you can. She's driving north and her trunk is full. The only thing you want right now is to get across the state line before she does. You don't want to be in Vermont when she parks her car and lays claim to your husband.

Twelve years ago you became an apprentice ski instructor. Your tenure as a teacher on the slopes was only meant to last a season. You thought over the months you'd grow to love the cold and the vast landscapes of white, but you never did. At the end of the season, just before you decided to give up on winter and skiing forever, another apprentice ski instructor came tumbling off of a lift and crashed into your ankles. His name was Norman and you would be married before Spring. You bought a cabin together and lived in Vermont year round, making all your money in the wintertime giving skiing lessons for exorbitant fees.

Nine happy yet ice cold years later, Norman broke his femur on the slopes and ended up being treated by a beautiful young sports medicine doctor who worked the resort in the winter. They fell in love over the course of his physical therapy while you continued teaching lawyers how to ski. They carried out their affair for three whole seasons. She'd come up for the winters and he'd arrange his class schedule so that you were always teaching for at least a couple of hours of his free-time. Today Norman finally confessed that when his doctor arrives today, he'll be moving into her cabin. You hit him in the face with a snow boot, grabbed the car keys and started driving fast.

You didn't suspect a thing. You always said that the cold winters bothered you, but Norman's love kept you warm. Even your rationalization was based on an outright lie. The worst part is, these past three years you felt that Norman was more attentive and giving than ever before. You felt like you had settled into the real and true married happiness that would last you until your old age. His guilt must have forced him to overcompensate, and now he's got you violating the speed limit and feeling like a fool.

When you finally enter Massachusetts, you'll check the clock and feel comfortable that you made it. There's no way she could have gotten into Vermont that soon. But you don't let up on the gas. You want to get out of sight of the blaring miserable foliage all around you. You want to get someplace maybe 600 miles away, where there's no autumn. Someplace where when the leaves are ready to fall of the trees, they don't try to trick you by turning all sorts of pretty colors. You're gonna keep driving till leaves die ugly.

Happy Get The Fuck Outta Sugarbush Day!