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I don’t have anything against snowboarders, personality-wise.They just don’t align with my own goals in the mountains, which lean toward touring and backcountry skiing.Not to mention, in the aftermath of splitting from the person I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with at the age of 30, the very concept of dating seemed absurd.The closest I’d gotten to another living being in the past few months was spooning my dog every night.
Then my date and I head off to ride the lifts together and ski any runs we choose.Throughout the day, I asked questions and took mental notes about my dates, identifying aspects as pros (tall, easy to talk to, accomplished in the mountains) or cons (really into cars, self-absorbed, inconsiderate). As soon as I arrived at the base after parting from Date Number One, I heard a voice behind me say, “Hey, what color ribbon are you? Before we could get matched with anyone else, he invited me to ski.” I turned to see a cute skier boy (at least from what I could tell based on the five inches of exposed face under his goggles) smiling widely. Asking the ribbon question here seemed akin to asking, “Hey, how old are you? Our chatter flowed from work to college to the outdoors.Later, when I almost went down on a run but saved it at the last minute, he yelled across the slope, “Nice job, Alabama!” Not only had he remembered my home state, he already had a nickname for me—now I was the one grinning.