Whistler: Bringing out the Savage in Me

The comforting smell of coffee and crisp toast overwhelmed the cabin, and I was surprisingly up and about ready to hit the pow. It was that kind of day. White, thick, and bound to be a hell of a lot of fun. Just the way I like it.

The mountain air caressed my face as we rode up the chairlift. Hell yes. The powder looked great and so did we. Some solid Whistler skiing ensued.

Brynn is an extraordinary skier. Before we met at USC she had to make the decision to either ski hard for the rest of her life or go to college. She chose college and golf. I mean, im pretty happy she did. She rocks it on the slopes and I trail behind. I blame it on the boarders.

Let’s be honest now, I could only take a half day. Weak. Im aware. Clearly more squats were needed prior to the slopes. There is nothing like the burn from your first day on the mountain. Can’t win them all.

So, we lost one, but gained a pitcher and a pile of nachos. I’ll take it thanks. Our first Whistler après ski.

Spotted. Everyone who is anyone. Skiers, boarders, and those that dress like they skied all day, but never actually got up the mountain nor even know how to ski. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

It was going to be the first of many epic nights to come and it was only 4 o’clock. A cute brunette walked up to our table. Adrianna. Adrianna is one of Brynn’s besties from back in the ski days. She’s awesome, so yay for new friends. You’ll find that’s a common theme in this here tale.

A little blonde ball of laughter, full of life and uncontrollable energy. That was me.  After an eventful one of many après skis, Brynn, Adrianna and I stumbled back up to the cabin. If you have ever been skiing you know that ski boots, liquor and an icy hill are not exactly the ideal combination for success. Regardless, we were winning. It’s what we do.

Victory. We made it. Ski boots and all. Crack open the booze. Freshen up. Let’s go. Back down the hill. I was smart this time. Uggs. As we gracefully slid into the village, we contemplated the many choices we had. Savage Beagle, Maxx Fish, Tommy’s. Garfs. Alright, Savage it was.

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“Jaeger shots?” asked an unfamiliar, yet fine face, from across the table.

“Absolutely,” I coquettishly smiled back.

The looker made his way to the bar. It was going to be a good night.

“I have a feeling this is going to be a good night guys,” I proclaimed. The girls smiled. “When do you have a bad night?” Brynn lashed back.

“Truth.” I smirked.

The man with the pretty face made his way back over. He lined up the shots, and down the hatchet they went. Feeling nice and toasty inside, we thanked that handsome face and descended into the depths of the Beagle. Hard beats pounded through the place.

“Four vodka sodas please,” I very sweetly asked the bartender. When you are dealing with female bartenders you always want to be on your best behavior. You want the drinks? Time to kiss some bartender ass.

Sipping our signature drinks, we scoped the place. Good people, great stories and even better times. That’s what Whistler is all about.

“Sweet dance moves bro,” I snidely remarked to some flailing human on the platform. He jumped off, looked at me, and said, “well then, you get up there.”

“With pleasure,” I smiled. He smiled. We both knew what was going on.

The girls and I jumped on up. Swinging are hips back and forth, arms flying high, pretty much having the best time in the place, we attracted a lot of attention. We didn’t mind it, but we weren’t about to entertain the masses either. I was no go-go dancer, and wasn’t going to start now.

I jumped down. The looker from before had managed to prey upon me, and snuck up on me from behind. Surprised, I turned around and smiled. A familiar song came on and the vibrations of the bass filled my body. I was happy. I was thrilled. It felt good. I felt free for the first time in months. No computer. No ipad. No worries. The pressure was off. The hustle had slowed to a mere crawl. It was my time. As the beat began to build, I felt this rush inside me. It had begun. Whistler had started to take over. I could feel it in my skin. Freedom. Peace from within.

After experiencing the initial symptoms of  that Whistler ecstasy, I came back around and found Brynn talking to some toque wearing fellow named Ollie. Brynn gave me the “the look.” “The look” in this case meant, lets go back to the cabin, hop in the Jacuzzi and continue this party elsewhere. I obliged. As we ascended the steps to the outside world, I spotted the looker once again. I glanced seductively at him and signaled him to tag along. He obliged.

Victory. We made it. Crack open the brewhahas and lets do this. Laughter filled the cabin. Positive mental attitudes everywhere, no doubt about it. We knew how to throw an after-party.

From the corner of my eye I witnessed a little something, something going on in the corner. Brynn and this Ollie character were slipping away. Apparently, the steaming waters of the jacuzzi looked tempting. I had a feeling that wasn’t going to last. Not only was it far too cold, but we had accidentally found out that Mr. White Toque was balding. Balding is rarely a good look for anyone.

Our Savage guests trickled out, and the looker and I were left upstairs hysterically telling tales of our travels and adventures. A well traveled Aussie, he was funny, educated and ridiculously attractive. Usually you only find them, with at best, 2 out of 3 and attractive is a necessity. I was off to a great start. 3 for 3. Win.

While in the midst of one of my better stories, the toque wearing gentleman wandered inside. He looked defeated and warn.

“I knew it,” I thought to myself.

My phone lights up. It was Brynn. I chuckled. The text read, “sorry for that. I warned him, I didnt know what he was going to find inside, but it just wasn’t happening.” I laughed. Rule numero uno when it comes to guys and life, en generale, really, if you don’t want to, don’t do it. I texted back, “quel domage ;).”

The looker glanced over at the defeated boy, “g’night mate.”

That Aussie accent resonated through me. “Winning,” I thought to myself. A giggle escaped my mouth. As tipsy as we both were, and as much as I wanted to pounce my prey, I protested, and made my way on down to the bedroom, minus one Aussie. Next time. I had to play nice. This wasn’t a trip for good girls, nor was it a girls gone wild kind of trip, it was a “do what you want, but always act like a lady” kind of trip.

Ladylike, fun-loving, and sophisticated with a side of ‘betch’ and scrub. It was the Whistler way.

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