Deliverance, CO

Ok, so reality is setting in. I *may* not be as good on vaca as I thought. I originally thought that staying in a condo on a beach with a full kitchen would help tremendously in keeping me in check, but my father has been putting words into my head like "Oyster Bar" or "Snoopy's" and "crabcakes".

And gumbo.
And crawfish quesadillas
And margaritas.

I had more faith in this man. A vegetarian who salivates worse than I do over a fresh catch? Thanks, Dad. I suppose we all have our weaknesses. Mine just happens to be shellfish. I may have to go on a little investigative tour to find out just how many calories are in crabcakes so I don't go completely overboard as is usually the case with such items (remoullaide is bad for you? Who the hell knew?) Eh. Screw it. I have given up on some things in my lifetime, one of which is dessert- I never order dessert anymore. And a plate full of fried batter dipped and friend food. Let's just promise to get in a couple of good beach runs, chase around the little brother and just have a really good fucking time.

The weekend away was exactly what I needed. Well, with the exception of the massage therapist who insisted on craning his neck to see under the sheet as I turned over. If you happen to be in Breckenridge, Colorado and wander into a certain spa with a color and herb in it's name.... stay away. The male massage therapist is a peeping tom and has the thickest, most horribly groomed eyebrows I've seen on a man.

The condo was spectacular. It was one of those big box resorts with 24 concierge, antler chandeliers, and a fully stocked fireplace. The log bunkbeds were a nice touch as well. The highlight was our driver, though. He was one of those east coast wanderers-turned- mountain man who came out to the Rockies looking for good beer, fresh powder and snow bunnies. The boy is living in a beer commercial. What makes this man memorable is the fact that my 43 year old friend (married with children) gets a couple of martinis in her and wants to take him home. When she realizes this won't happen (only after she had us all dying with her pick-up lines), she turned him over to her niece. Hilarity ensues after a piece of chocolate wrapped in our ROOM NUMBER made it into his hand.... and he actually wandered up. And I will tell you something else, that's the last time I chaperone a date in a hot tub.

But I hate mountain towns. It's a snobbish superiority complex. It must be what a New Yorker feels like when coming back after living in LA for a few years. You KNOW you belong, but you can't help feeling like a bumbling touron (tourist+moron). The locals (who are glorified transplants themselves) are ridiculously stuck up because they can be. You, you precious little tourist you, are a dime a dozen. Forgetful of the importance of hapless tourists on their livelihood (or constantly and painfully reminded of it), the locals will laugh off your presence as though you are panhandling in front of a million dollar chalet.

And I miss it all terribly. I reminded a childhood friend of mine just the other day of our own encounters with these tourists- sneaking them into our own parent's hot tub and laughing off the poor man who wandered into the pool after 12 exhausting hours in a car with an equally exhausting family wondering where in fact was the pool or convincing those boys that their father's white Escalade would be FINE to take up to the flat tops.

Perhaps this is penance then?

Anyway, here's my plan for today. I'm juicing mostly, but I might sneak in some protein. It's going well:

-green juice (fruit)
-pommegranite juice
-green salad and another juice
-green juice (veggie)
-egg white omelette
-lots of hibiscus tea and water

workout: 40 minute walk/run