Hubby and I escaped to Crested Butte this weekend with some friends. The plan…no kids, two days of skiing, uninterrupted meals with alcoholic beverages, and a king-size suite with mountain view. We got here early this afternoon. First stop, the Brick Oven for pizza and beer. It was 2 p.m. Yes. I had a beer at 2 p.m. It was glorious. After lunch, we strolled around downtown Crested Butte (population: about 1500 crazy, skiing folks), checking out the restaurants and stores. As we were heading back up Elk Street, I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. You can’t be serious. Right there, just feet from the sidewalk, were two benches made out of wagon wheels. Wagon wheels have been a personal joke between Steve and I since the day he decided to install a whiskey barrel into our otherwise extremely natural and tastefully landscaped backyard. I told him that with that whiskey barrel we had officially arrived at one wagon wheel shy of white trash.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“It’s a sign,” Steve said.
“Yeah. It’s a sign that too many people came west in covered wagons.”
Still, we had to sit on the stupid bench and have our picture taken. Apparently, I can escape my home life, the kids, the house, the chores. But, no matter what I do, I am doomed. I will never escape the wagon wheel.