I never tasted Merlot

The flight to Denver was almost unbearable. Previously, I had somehow managed to walk 18 holes alone, despite skipping the last 4, while working up a considerable sweat for a balmy March morning in North Carolina, panting heavily and nervous about potentially missing my Raleigh connection because I just HAD to stop and play that short par 3 on 16, guzzled down an unhealthy amount of Chick Fila French fries in the back seat of my uncle’s F-250 and panic bought $500 worth of GameStop stock only to watch it plummet immediately upon purchase, all in the name good old fashioned American greed, and all this just moments before I was to chuck my out of shape and inexperienced frame over a 13,000 foot snowy mountain the ski world knows simply as “Breckinridge.”

Most ordinary citizens of this societal burning rock have a general game plan before taking flight across country.

Wake up early, have a light breakfast. Maybe a little stretching, some light yoga. Check those bags one more time. (Most people also pack the night BEFORE their flight). Arrive at the airport with at least an hour to spare. You know, just in case. One quick bathroom break in the terminal, board comfortably, and fly to their destination in peace.

I do none of these things.

I am continually amused at the reactions I get from people in airports and airplanes in general, and I am again reminded of this fact as I wiggle my way into the middle seat, clearly disheveled, but still positive, and catch simultaneous opposing glimpses as the man in the aisle scowls and the woman in the window laughs upon my beleaguered entrance.

Ironically, as time would unveil itself it turned out that the only thing more unbearable than a bloated, 4 hour United Airlines flight between two stiff necked passengers and the ever present, faint, distant thought of suddenly crashing to a burning death with 200 strangers was falling down a mountain uncontrollably (and still bloated) amid 2,000 [experienced] strangers.

To say I was unprepared for the Colorado skiing experience would be a gross understatement. There are things I can do, and there are things I can do well. Skiing is simply not one of them, and we will leave it at that.

What I lacked on the slopes though, I made up for on the social scene.

Hinge is wonderful app.

What other dating apps lack in appearance, prestige, and professionalism, Hinge makes up for with its singnaling prompts, aesthetically pleasing navigation, and its untetheringly higher performance of competent users.

By day one of our trip I had already lined up a roster the ‘27 Yankees would be envious of. Downtown Denver professionals, Breck tourists, some nature lovers, a few ski freaks, and even a golf partner for some Saturday afternoon ball slicing. Things were looking up for a guy who just 10 minutes ago was lying on his back on the side of a mountain, skis dislodged and getting asked frequently by bypassers if he was ok. (I was, just a crushed spirit).

What I failed to realize; however, is that the world still works in mysterious ways-and not every connection in 2021 happens between two iPhone screens and a scarily impressive match algorithm. Sometimes, just sometimes, we meet people-wait for it-in public.

It was Saturday night at the Salt Creek bar and steakhouse when I first saw her. In fact, she was the first thing my eyes were drawn to upon entering the restaurant. She was tall, but not too tall, brunette, eyes that pierced yet still looked forgiving, and the best part-looked right back at me. Our waiter sat us in the booth behind theirs and I wasted no time making sure I sat where we could both see each other.

If there was ever a conversation being had across a room, where no words were being said, but just eye contact alone, this was it. She had a glass of red merlot pressed against her lips, and in between sips she would look up at me, smile with her eyes, and then look away, while I drowned in the distance.

Her company was quite interesting-an older man, what appeared to be his wife, another slightly younger woman which I took to be the brunettes mother, and a 2 year old girl.

My well trained eye had made a point to notice the absence of a diamond on her ring finger as she sipped merlot and rocked the baby girl in her arms throughout the night. Continually our eyes met. At one point, the little girl got out of her high chair and started to walk towards our table, stopped, pointed at me, looked back at her mother, and smiled. It was here that I noticed she was speaking Spanish. Our eyes met again, then to the little girl, then back to each other where an even bigger smile was exchanged.

I could not make sense of the situation the whole night. What was this strange dynamic?

Eventually, the check came. We got up from our table, walked towards the stairs, and I watched her the whole way down until she was out of sight.

She was still sipping Merlot.