From the Rockies to Reality

 

And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased;

And he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.

— Matthew 23:12

 

We just got back from a weekend getaway at a posh resort in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. We were attending the "destination wedding" of the daughter of some dear friends, and getting some much-needed R&R.

 

The views were stunning: snow still capped many mountains, and lilacs and wildflowers combined with pine trees and sage to create intoxicating mountain aromas.

 

The hotel lodge sported a soaring log ceiling with a massive stone fireplace and leather seating. Our room had a marble bath, lovely woodwork, and a featherbed that required a pole-vaulter's approach.

 

We fly-fished in 40-degree waters on a hideaway creek, stresses and strains vanishing into the chuckling stream.

 

I caught the first fish, a brown trout with red freckles. I kissed him on his enormous lips and released him. My husband caught two more. Our enormous waders were slimming and we felt as graceful as Brad Pitt in "A River Runs Through It."

 

He played golf while I read, uninterrupted, on the hotel patio. I dozed in public, drooling and snoring, completely relaxed.

 

Another friend of the bride and I hosted a bridal luncheon. I hauled out my guitar to sing the old Kodak song, "Where are you going, my little one, little one?" Several people cried, and not just over my funky singing. We all reveled in the sweet emotions of this special time.

 

That night, we were amused when some arrogant tourists brought their dog into the restaurant - a Thai restaurant. We joked that the dog had to be awfully nervous.

 

We returned to the hotel and toasted s'mores over crackling logs under a sky that looked like God spilled an endless sack of sparkling sugar onto a ream of celestial black velvet.

 

Next evening's wedding was spectacular, under a log trellis bedecked with white flowers, greenery and gold ribbon. The bride added comic relief with a stage-voice "Whew!" when she finally got the groom's ring on his finger.

 

We ate a gourmet meal, drank far too much wine, and danced like crazy people into the night.

 

Next morning, we drove away regretfully, savoring what had been literally a pinnacle experience.

 

Well, we didn't get far before I started feeling poorly. All that wine, and we'd skipped breakfast to get on the road.

 

We sailed past Vail and Breckenridge, rolling up and down the foothills. The change in altitude was really getting to me. I stared at my freebie hotel newspaper, trying not to think about my gurgling stomach.

 

Dang! I knew better. For someone who drinks very little, a five-glass evening is a five-alarm emergency for the old tum-tum.

 

Finally, desperately, I groped around on the floor of the second seat . . . and came up with my husband's half-sack of Cheetos from the trip out.

 

Ewwww! Cheetos!!! I hate Cheetos! Now I was REALLY sick.

 

I opened it up, doubly nauseated by the blast of Cheetos aroma, and then, sinking my face into it like a nag into a feedbag, I did what you do "the morning after," actively, dramatically and with fervor.

 

Too late, I realized there were people in the car in the next lane. Just as I came up for air out of that Cheetos sack, our eyes locked . . .

 

. . . and from the disgust on their faces, I knew I had come down from the mountaintop, back into the Valley of Reality.

 

I had Cheetos ring-around-the-mouth, and any illusion of aristocracy and sophistication was long gone.

 

But that's OK. You know what they say: peak experiences are just for show. The only place for real life is down in the valley. Nothing much grows on a mountaintop, and you can't stay up there for long.

 

So I did the only thing I could: I looked over at those people, smiled my friendliest post-protein spill smile, motioned toward them with the heavy-laden Cheetos bag, and gave them a fully humble, middle-class thumbs up . . . like it was the most fun I'd ever had, throwing up in front of them.

 

You should have seen their disgusted, confused and amused faces as their driver floored it to get away from that weirdo in the next car.

 

Hey! The people at the top may have more deluxe lifestyles and mannerisms . . . but we flatlanders have more fun. †