I’m fried. Literally and figuratively.

I went up to Winter Park for a ski/cook out. Spring skiing is the best for this. I had friends that reserved parking spots at the base of the mountain so we can ski down to our bbq spot. When I arrived a cop was guarding the “full-lot barricade” making sure nobody else tries to park there.

“Hey buddy, mind if I pull in real quick and drop off some bbq supplies to my friends. They got here earlier and I just want to dump some stuff off to them,” I said. He looked at me, trying to read my face and then over to his partner as if to say, “Should I let this punk get away with his bullshit?” The he steps back and eyes my car up and down, noticing the cracked bumper, both broken tail lights, and web of cracks along the windshield.
“What are you driving?” he asks.
“Oh this. This is just a Mazda Protégé. A ’91,” I reply knowing the there is no way he could be impressed with this.
“Come on in. You’ve been expected.” He says without smiling while lifting up the road block barricade.

I felt like some sort of VIP pulling up to our cookout. About 15-20 good friends. A couple of portable grills and enough hamburgers, hotdogs, beans, pickles, beer and rice crispy treats to feed an army. Sunny, 60 degree weather, and lots of sun screen. Slushy snow, t-shirts and bumps all morning long. It was a great day and left me tired and sunburnt.

That night, after napping for an hour or two I went over to Lebers for more cookout and a bunch of Lebers perfectly created Mai Tais. The I went over another friends and crashed the after perfect circle party they were having. I ended up staying way too late again.

Sunday I spent getting more sunburnt and lazing the day away.