$120,000 for a Chicken Sandwich?!?!?

Despite the cold and harsh conditions that Mother Nature was dealing the Northeast region, I spontaneously decided that it was time to beat the dormitory doldrums and head out to the slopes. With the aid of two separate alarms and many dirty remarks from my weary roommate, I awoke with high hopes of hurling my carcass of jumps, bottomless powder and snowy freedom. I fought the early morning hockey and ski crowd at Dunkin Donuts and stuffed myself with as much artificial frosting and jelly as I could. Upon feeling sick to my stomach I headed south to a certain nameless mountain that rhymes with what happened to my car when I left it in handicapped parking in front of Simpson Hall overnight. I followed the caravan of SUVs into the parking lot where everyone piles out of their vehicles and stands in the middle of everyone elses’ way. The parking lot of a ski resort often times requires as much skill and street smarts as beating the house in Vegas. First of all, the parking lot attendants are basically road cones; avoid eye contact with them while they try and direct you as far from the lodge as they can. Then fit your car into that space that the oversized SUVs use to open their doors in. I got to the ticket line where parents dished out $50 to have their child sit in the lodge and play arcade games. I paid the same amount for that lift ticket that I did for my Accounting book (both rip-offs). When I finally got outside I looked at the lift line that looked like the ride for Space Mountain at Disney World during February vacation. I contemplated walking up the slope myself. Luckily, there was a guy there who walked around with a backpack full of hot chocolate for everyone to warm up with. I got a cup slightly smaller than a shot glass which instantly froze solid. I watched an entire family ski directly across my already out of date skis (purchased one year ago) while all three children whined with discontent that they had to be skiing for more than an hour at a time. At the summit of the mountain a brisk breeze met me in the face like an Evander Holyfield sucker-punch. I instantly fell into a coma and by chance woke up as the neophyte snowboarder who rode the lift with me fell on his friend who fell onto me pounding me into the ice as we disembarked from the lift. I chose a nice cruiser to warm up on where the We Ski Across the Trail in Giant Zig-Zags Convention was being held. I was more stressed on that one run than I was during the entire week of finals last semester. After a few more delightful runs in the woods, I decided I could go for some lunch. The lodge was filled with Abercrombie wearing teens who may or may not have put their skis on that day. I got in line and tried to buy a chicken sandwich but when I saw the price I got really confused: I didn’t want to send the chicken to college, just eat it. My lack of funds caused me to savor two granola bars while I watched cell phone conversations and PDA using by 13 year olds. By then I’d had enough of the lunch crowd so I grabbed my skis and skated uphill to the equivalent distance of the Olympic biathlon only wishing I had a gun to shoot every person who didn’t know how to ski on a flat section and got in my way. The gondola line moved fast enough but once on it I wanted to be back in line. I got sandwiched between a deodorant-free local and a helmet wearing middle aged father. The local kept to himself while licking the window and saying, “Oh my gosh, mine tastes like strawberries, what does yours taste like Grandpa?!” The father talked to his wife over his walkie talkie wondering if they should go to the spa or the bar first or just both at the same time. I prayed that I would never turn out like either of my gondola mates. The gondola brought me to more crowds and more of the WSATGZZC. So I headed over to the park for some wholesome self-inflicted pain. I would tell you all about it but I can’t because I never went off one jump because of all the seven and eight year olds that stood on top of the jumps riding down the side of them while their parents took “action shots” of them. The entire day I got in nine runs and after some quick math I figured out that I worked an entire day for minimum wage to pay for each run. On the way out I watched teens toss their $1000 skis onto the concrete without a care. When I got back to the dorm my roommate asked me how it was and I replied with a question that could be the only fitting way to wrap up a day like I had, “Want to have a Vin Diesel movie marathon?”