“This is why we can’t have nice things.”
I’ve said it a hundred times to my own children, usually after they break a glass or smash their bike into a fence. One time, no kidding, I said it when they spilled grape-flavored Gatorade in our new minivan on the inaugural ride home from the dealership.
This is why we can’t have nice things.
The stain on the floor mat was a constant reminder of this fact for several years.
I’m not saying we don’t deserve nice things. I’m saying my current lifestyle is not conducive to nice things. I have kids and a dog and I do dirty adventures like mountain biking and surfing and trail running. I sweat a lot and bleed often. If you give me something nice, like a cashmere sweater, I’ll spill coffee on it. If you ask me to camp in a top-of-the-line tent, I’ll burn a hole in the rainfly.
I’ve melted the soles of expensive hiking boots in campfires, ripped holes in ski sweaters, and left melted chocolate bars in the pockets of puffy jackets.
This is why we can’t have nice things.
The thing is, I’m ok with it. If anything, I pride myself on living a life with subpar belongings. I’ve successfully knocked out countless epic mountain bike adventures on clunkers that criminals wouldn’t even bother stealing. My current gravel bike is barely a step above a big box cruiser, and I’ve ridden it all over the Southern Appalachians. If given the choice between sleeping in a hotel or the back of my truck, I’m usually going to pick the back of my truck.
Am I a dirt bag? I’d like to think so. My favorite beer is whatever you’re buying and my preferred trail snack is a baggie of leftovers from the fridge. Eating cold lomein deep in the backcountry is a transcendent experience. My favorite ski resort in my home state of North Carolina was a ramshackle affair that could barely manage to turn the lights on every winter. The liftie looked like Kid Rock and they often put cappuccino in the hot cocoa machines because why bother ordering both from the supplier? You’d probably get tetanus if you fell down, but I loved it. The duct tape and half-assery spoke to my inner dirt bag. The skiing was good too.
Fast forward a couple of years and that sketchy resort is gone. Or rather, it’s been reborn. It was purchased, shuttered, stripped to its bones and re-opened this year as the very swanky Hatley Pointe. I’ve been watching the renovations on social media for the last two years and honestly questioned whether the Southern Appalachians needed a high-end resort like this. It has a juice bar and valet parking and a VIP club where you get a robe and slippers…
Don’t they know we can’t have nice things?
I’ve always been suspicious of change, and if you tell me that change is going to be an upgrade? With a juice bar? Forget about it.
But I finally got a chance to ski that new resort recently after a couple inches of fresh Appalachian powder and I was blown away with what they’d done with the place. The bones of the old resort were still there—the slow quad lift, the steep terrain—but everything else was completely reimagined for people who don’t bleed on their nice pants. There’s a legit coffee shop with real coffee drinks, not just a watered down cappuccino machine, as well as an upstairs bar with good cocktails and a wall of TVs showing sports, not to mention comfy lounge areas surrounding an Instagram-worthy fireplace and quiet nooks for cozy rest.
The quad lift has cushions. Cushions! Not just hard, cold plastic. Can you imagine? And you can get a beer in the lodge now, or even go to the bathroom without feeling like you need to take a shower after. And you know what’s awesome before hitting the slopes? A cold pressed juice! You know what’s great after hitting the slopes? Slippers!
As I was eating my artisanal pizza (there’s a pizza truck!) and considering my second craft beer, with my feet propped up on a faux bearskin-clad ottoman in front of the fire, I started to reconsider my hard and fast rule against having nice things. I started to imagine a life where I drove a nice car and owned a leather couch and real artwork. A life where I pedaled expensive carbon fiber bicycles and drank top shelf whiskey. A life where I didn’t spill that whiskey on my leather couch or steer that carbon fiber bike into a ditch.
This is the problem with treating myself to nice things. I start to expect them. I went glamping once for an assignment and the experience ruined regular camping for almost a year. I couldn’t fathom crawling into a regular two-person tent. You expect me to sleep on the ground? In a sleeping bag? Where am I supposed to put the vintage writing table in that tiny tent? Where?!
Eventually, I got over it and I’ve reached a nice balance in my life where I can occasionally dabble in the luxuries of glamping without forsaking my dirtbag heritage of sleeping in regular tents, cars, and the occasional ditch. I’m hopeful that I’ll find a similar balance in my ski life at some point. For now, I’m going to enjoy these post-shred slippers while the valet gets my truck.
Cover photo: Photo courtesy of the author at Hately Point.
