Part Two: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Being 17 (Again)

In January’s “part-one” post, I whined about my inability to weather, ungrudgingly, the droning New England winter and lackluster early-spring months that follow.

I then promised a “part two” post in which I’d divvy out some tips on how to make the best of this in-between time. And, although I've spent the last month trying in vain to unearth these seemingly impossible methods, I've got, well, nothing.

Time to Improvise

Coincidentally, I Snapchatted
this picture of Lena. 

I’ll spare you from elaborating on any of the, ahem, “exciting” activities I've tried to bide my time with, such as forcibly acquiring a new taste for aged scotch, sending out massive amounts of mindless “Snapchats,” or watching episodes of HBO’s GIRLS and feeling better about myself because I am NOT Lena Dunham.

What I will share is an uplifting story about the highlight of my January/February: a snowboarding trip up to Vermont with three teenage, I’m talking 16 and 17 year-old, boys.


During my early-teenage golden years, I spent the winter weekends skiing up at Killington, VT, with my uncle and little cousin, Cam. Although he’ll always be my “little” cousin, Cam is now “larger” than I...at 17, he runs his own lucrative landscaping business and, immediately after scoring his license, purchased a sharp-looking monster of a Suburban. His financial successes dwarf mine at age 23, which is extremely reassuring.

Taylor Swift Trumps Tom Petty
Anyways, Cam brought along his two friends Pat and Matt, both of whom I’d met before. The crew was ripe and ready in my driveway by 6:45 a.m. sharp, which was the time I begged them to extend by 30 minutes. I consider myself a “morning person,” but wow, high school really gets those kids up-and-at-em early these days.

Cam took the drivers seat (“I’m the best driver”) while I swiped shotgun and threw on a Tom Petty CD. The boys were so baffled by my choice of foreign, “old people” music, I was pretty sure they were going to pull over, purchase some tomatoes, and violently throw them at me.

I was quickly reduced to saucy pop tunes and hip-hop stations with names like “Hot 95.5” for the remainder of the ride. I felt my brain getting smaller, although I did learn from the boys that Taylor Swift sang that “we are never, ever getting back together” song, which explains why no one should ever date her.

"Junior" Jules
I felt like we were never, ever going to get to the mountain, and when we finally did, the thermometer read 3°. My dwindling morale inflicted by the extremely low temperature was quickly offset by the surprisingly low price of our “junior” lift tickets: $65. Feigning 17 for a day was already worth it. (Confession: since turning 21, I automatically adore anyone who accuses me of looking younger than I am. Subsequently, I developed an instant infatuation for the man behind the ticket counter who took me for 17, even though he kind of looked like a caveman.)

We finally piled onto the four-person lift and felt relieved to be that much closer to touching the snow. The first run was already worth it: the conditions were perfect.

Cousin Cam and I Crushing Mt. Snow on a Bluebird Day

Though below freezing at the top with a wind-chill of holy hell, the trails were groomed perfectly and we were shredding. These boys were fearless, and I loved it. We went until I couldn't feel my toes, and I headed in for lunch a run early to defrost them by the fire (this made me feel exclusively elderly, but I swear they were five minutes from frost-bite.)

Fried Chicken and (No) Beer
I stared at the bar sign. How was I going to indulge in what had become a basic lunch-time necessity on the mountain: a refreshing craft beer (or three)? The answer: I wasn’t. Instead, it was nachos and fries and chicken fingers and all that greasy good stuff teenage boys indulge in so voraciously.

Twenty minutes later, we were headed back out. This was turning out to be a rather productive, sober trip (two weeks later, my friend Todd would insist on taking a shot of a Jameson before exiting the car to gear-up at about 9 a.m… but really, who needs coffee?).

The rest of the day we engaged merrily in juvenile activities, such as dousing each other with aggressive, borderline violent snow sprays mid-run. Perhaps the essence of the day came on our very last ride up the lift at about 3:55 p.m. I was sitting in the middle of the boys, and we were all watching Cam slowly release saliva from his mouth, aiming the drip down toward the metal rail. Moments later, it hit. “Dude, check this out...my spit is freezing!!!”

We burst in to laughter, which was partly fueled by the disbelief that we were bearing this extremity of coldness, and otherwise imbibed by our general amusement at the striking result of such a disgustingly trivial act (at least this was what prompted my giggles, for them it was just simply hysterical).

We packed up and headed to the car and, once the pod unfroze and we were able to automatically unlock the doors—yes, that cold— Cam motioned to take the wheel again on the drive home. As I struggled to climb my archaic limbs into the passenger seat, I marveled at his motivation and energy.

I'll Have a Shot of Gatorade with that Slim Jim, Please
It was happy hour now, and my mind was wandering elsewhere. But low and behold: a perfect pit stop at the gas station to stock up on some rather fulfilling goodies (Slim Jims, Munchie Mix, blue Gatorades, gummy worms, Cokes, etc.)  made me pretty freaking jovial. We were cruising on home, and I was actually starting to enjoy the sounds of “Pit Ball” or "Pit Bull," is it?

All day long I had tried to pick up on the boys lingo, and was slowly starting to integrate the word “soft” into my vocabulary. In the elaborate mind of a suburban, 17 year-old male, “soft” is used to describe a persons worth, i.e. “he’s so soft, he can't even play flag football.” We actually devised an inside joke when one of our conversations led to the brilliant creation of the metaphor “soft as pillows.” 

See You in First Period?
I felt pretty cool now and leaned back in my seat to take in all the boys’ gossip about their fellow high school classmates…“She got caught stealing from Abercrombie, she’s like, a total klepto” ... “Dude, Sarah’s soo annoying, why’s he still going out with her…” (OK, I guess I still say some of these things.)

It was awesome to remember how simple their problems are, how much they still don’t know, and how little responsibility they really have.

When the clan finally dropped me off at my house, I felt like I was pretty much ready to stroll in to first period late with them the next morning. It’s true: there’s a part of me that identifies with the spirit of a 17-year old boy.

Although I’ll never be a high school student again, it's always good to revisit how you once felt and acted during a time in your life. You can't bring back the past, but you can certainly relive it. And there’s no greater way to do this than to park your self on a ski lift flanked by three teenage boys and watch their spit freeze to a metal rail. I’m serious.


P.S., I was pretty sure Pat was happy that I was rejoining the rest of the adult population the next day when he sent me this heart-warming text. I forgot that when you're 17, you just want to be 21. Unless of course, you have friends in the right places...