One day every year, I am called upon to be "the man". This Saturday was that day.
Each year, the place where I ski patrol hosts a St. Patty's/Mardi Gras hybrid celebration (pictured above). Thousands come, dressed up in goofy costumes, equipped with their Mardi Gras beads and their Jager-Bombs to listen to blaring frat-rock and enjoy a day on the slopes. It is not uncommon to see a lot of naked breasts and various 40-somethings passed out in the snow like they're high school kids getting drunk for the first time. Unfortunately, we patrollers must remain sober throughout in order to babysit.
The party crowd congregates on one of the runs in the center of the mountain. At the end of the day, it is our job to sweep the straggling drunks off the hill. All the patrollers form a line and "encourage" those remaining to head towards the bottom. It can be a frustrating task that puts me in an awkward position. You see, I am not an authoritarian by any means. I don't like having to yell at people. However, my normally long fuse quickly gets shorter when some dork holding a beer bong refuses to accept the fact that the party is over and, more importantly, that I can't drink myself until his incoherent ass is off the hill. We get plenty of dirty looks and lots of belligerence (and an occasional "Thank you"). Ironically, by the end of it, I am so sick of it all that I go straight home, avoiding the after-party, and become what I had earlier despised - a drunk person.