Which Way Is The Real World?

It’s all well and good to believe in happy endings. But, when someone just keeps screwing up, well, I guess eventually you just have to say, “fuck you.” Or something like that. I heard that today.

Aspen. The land of Happy Endings (both PG and NC-17). Aspen. The bastard child that was born when Sodom and Gomorra fucked the American Dream at the end of a weeklong bender. Aspen. A paradise found. Problem is, Aspen’s got no rules. And like the cliché says, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

I spent the last four months waking up to dark coffee, the Times and two hour breakfasts. In was the trophy wide without the rich husband. I skied, I hiked, I did yoga, I repeated. I amused myself by figuring out which sap I could get to buy my overpriced meal and my fancy glass of wine. No one ever tells you to grow up. No one tells you that hanging out with Jim, Jack and Johnny seven nights a week is actually called alcoholism.

After an evening of average conversation with a nice guy I gave up on the Ridel wine glass and started swigging straight from the bottle of overpriced wine that was meant to impress me. I got just drunk enough to close my eyes and leave my body.  To settle for mediocre sex with a man who waxes poetic about how we were the fortunate few here in Aspentown. We didn’t have to deal with real life. We got to hide from it all in the Land of Milk and Honey. Bullshit.

The problem with Paradise Island is that none of its real. The only real things in life are those that happen by accident. You can’t force real. And you sure as shit can’t buy happiness. I hate it when clichés are true.

After a minute of living in paradise, shit got real. That’s the problem with life. Sometimes it’s real. And sometimes that’s hard. And I guess you just have to deal with it.

When shit got real, that’s when I got happy. There’s friends killing themselves, family members fighting, lovers turning their back on me, unplanned pregnancies, families dying, lovers lying, money getting flushed down the golden drain and you know what? I am happy. Hysterically, manically happy. Genuinely happy. All on accident. I am not happy despite these things. I am not happy because I live in Aspen and ski all day and party all night. I am happy because life is one huge, hot mess. Life is that drunk chick at the bar who is five sheets to the wind with mascara running down her face. She’s up on the bar singing Janis Joplin and drinking tequila from the bottle. And she’s loving every minute of it. Because it’s real.

I guess that’s life. It’s not the perfect mountain town fabricated with equal parts Dior, private jets and pristine ski slopes. It’s the little blond passed out in the bathroom at Su Casa. It’s that naked photo you wish wasn’t on Facebook. It’s the one night stand that became a baby. It’s the cancer that you weren’t expecting. It’s the lover who says they aren’t in love with you, and probably never were. It’s a dirty, cheating, lying bitch. And you gotta love it. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s real. And because it’s one huge, messed up accident. No amount of planning could create that.

And on this sunny day in paradise hell, I’m sitting here wondering where it all went wrong. And this is my story.