The race was for the mountain and although I was just a ragtag misfit there on vacation, I wanted nothing more than to bury the arrogant ski instructor. So you can only imagine how triumphant I felt when I tore flawlessly through the treacherous course and soared across the finish line, seconds ahead of my shocked opponent. Even now, there is nothing that compares to how I felt that day.
But here it was a year later and I was discovering there were a lot of things involved in owning a mountain. Things that ultimately, I could care less about.
And as I stood in the ski resort gift shop, I suddenly realized that all of the fame, the women, the acclaim – none of it was worth it in the end. “You seriously want me to pick every postcard we sell in this fucking place?” I asked the manager. “Jesus. Just put a bunch in there with snow and pine trees and whatever.”
“Does that hurt?” he asked, motioning to my arm.
As I looked down, I realized that I’d left the needle in. I pulled it carefully out and tossed it in the trash.
“This is what your phone calls are making me do,” I said.
