My Own Private Armpit
Love is a good place for a Stick-Up.
By ANNE BARNITT

Early October. I find him parked on a bench in front of the sushi place, wearing the same sneakers as I, thumbing through a back issue of Powder. I'm not-so-stylishly late for our second dinner date. After a bout of nervous grinning at each other, we tuck into the hipster locale and sit at what will become our favorite table for nigiri and miso. I try to focus on the obligatory getting-to-know-you banter, but I really want to throw myself at him. The magazine is open to a story on Big Sky, a place I called home for a short while. He deftly scoots right next to me, to better share the photos of a skier exploding over the precipice of the A to Z Chutes. His lanky leg presses next to mine, and I can smell his soapy warmness and see freckles near his blueberry eyes. Sunny, sinewy forearms ruffle the glossy pages, and we are transported from our wasabi nook in foggy surf city to our snowy imaginations, our slightly embellished memories. We dive into fantastical images of what the upcoming winter will surely opportune. I am smitten. Deeply.

Late November. "Dude, gettah watch!" An urgent if not aggravated voice shouts through the plywood bedroom door and my barely wakened haze. Slowly I gather clues: the flannel warmth of a foreign, saggy bed; the cozy nest of the Capilene armpit I've been slumbering in; the drab garage-sale décor of a rental ski condo. It's Thanksgiving weekend and I'm in Mammoth. The door creaks open and a hulking figure arrives at the foot of the bed, fleecy arms folded across a broad chest. "Dude, get up."

I know it's not for me. Armpit's ski partners have no tolerance for the sensual sleepiness that follows an all-night love fest with one's energetic new girlfriend. Nine in the morning is a disrespectful time to gather yourself on a powder day. Yet Mr. Aggravated waits, pleasantly disgruntled and keenly aware that Armpit owns the wagon that is the group's shuttle to the Chair 2 parking area.

Hastily I make myself decent (wrestle into sports bra, pull on long undies, attempt to smooth passion-styled cave-woman bed head), and wander out to meet these desperate skiers. I find them gripping steaming mugs of java, pacing around in tattered yet top-of-the-line base layers, knee pads Velcroed snugly to their patellas, their beer-enhanced torsos encircled by various generations of avalanche transceivers. They utter distracted greetings, briefly size me up, and point us to the pot of sludgy molten oatmeal on the stove.

Morning reveals a cavernous dorm for thirty-something dirt bags turned upwardly mobile 9-to-5ers. Unusually robust skis lean up against all available walls, duct tape-wrapped poles teeter in a pile, a rainbow of sticker-plastered helmet-goggle hybrids peers outward from its lineup on the mantle, and stacks of ski mags reveal the singular interest of the gentlemen that will gather here each and every weekend until May. Even then, they will not relinquish their passion just because the calendar declares summer. When the resort season ends they will sojourn deeper into the backcountry, but that is another story only they can pen.

Occasionally, a lady will join the group. A well appointed wife who "hates the cold" or a business-student girlfriend who studies at the miniscule kitchen table all day. This is generally boy territory though, and the multiple bottles of Jack Daniels, the crumb-mountains on the kitchen counter, and dank towels draped on the loft banister clearly reveal the lack of a consistent female presence. Only later, in the hairy shower, will I discover a bottle of something fruity, frothy, and feminine; evidence of the lone woman who pays a monthly share of rent on this seasonal homestead.

Mid February. Another glorious weekend in Mammoth. The condo fellows have dispatched to climb and ski something ominous on their tick list, Bloody Couloir, and I have him to myself. The chilled batteries in the GPS fail, and despite the confused urgings of the computer to head toward Tahoe, Armpit expertly guides us to Reds Meadow. We tenaciously, happily, spend most of the day descending to a slow winter creek, crossing under a partially frozen waterfall, traversing some icy dicey business, and skinning unexpectedly uphill. Just when we think we're lost he spots the ethereal wisp of steam, and then the tiny log cabin—a winter ranger's home.

On the rotten decking, mere seconds after our arrival, all apparel is discarded and we slosh clumsily and self consciously into the dark, sulfurous waters. Our cheeks pinken, my sweaty braids freeze solid, and my toes are reborn from the snug confines of my Magics. Looming above us, in our deliciously private hot spring, is the backside of the resort. A crusty-looking skin track snakes up the slope of burnt trees, evidence of cunning skiers who have enjoyed this spot before us. Diamond-studded sunshine gives way to a pinky-orange gentle sunset. Half a bottle of red wine and dark chocolate later and I'm in utopia. The company isn't half bad either; clever, rangy, hearty laugher. Except his camera seems to be pointed where it ought not. I am in love. Deeply. Silvery moonlight and yips of coyotes escort us home through Tamarack.

Late March. We sit in the neighborhood health-food eatery, snarkily guffawing at our pasty vegan servers while engaged in travel plans to Kauai. Armpit seems shifty, smiling at off moments, giving sideways glances. I tense up, assuming the worst. He has something to tell me. The season's over, and our relationship with it. Armpit is about to eject me for a comely lass that can actually link her turns rather than careen recklessly and unsexily down the mildest of groomers.

I need a cool response. Show no emotion. I can take it. Then he mumbles something about a new job.

Shifting into enthusiastic, tell-me-all-about-it mode, I feign confidence and excitement. Armpit says his new job is not here in Orange County. It's not even in the Golden State. Suddenly the soybean curd is cavorting in my gut, and my grandiose vision of Armpit and I enjoying the good life together falls thuddingly apart. Colorado is calling him, he says, and he is set to go. I smile and say I'm happy for him.

The next few days are gloomy, cautious. Not wanting to assume anything, I avoid the subject. We play in the waves on the north side of the pier, laughing our wet-rat heads off, gazing across the smoggy ocean toward Catalina Island, sucking down mouthfuls of e. coli and sandy water. A final mushy wave slides my boogie board onto the blond sand well ahead of me. As the water rushes back out again, I catch a glimpse of Armpit's arms flailing into the air as he surfs to glory. The sun is dipping low behind the blue Pacific horizon as we pad barefoot in our wetsuits along PCH back to his apartment and the hot shower.

"So," he says, charmingly, auspiciously, and to my surprise and delight, "when can you move to Colorado?"


Late November. Married two months. The thermometer reads a snappy 12 degrees, and there is at least a foot of fluffy snow on the deck. The dogs are running squirrel-recovery missions among the leafless aspens and exuberantly pawing at my hoodie. I wander back inside to the warmth of the pellet stove, twirl the ring on my left hand, and feel the engraved letters of our wedding day scrape against my skins. Unusually wide skis lean up against our living room wall, the bright yellow skins neatly bundled in their sack.

I am smitten. Deeply. Even the thirty-something dirt bags are my friends now. My skis, my skins. My Armpit.


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