Snowed under on the slopes
TIRED of disproportionate gender ratios that don’t fall in your favour? Then here’s the solution for you: Thredbo, where there are more men than you can poke a stock at.
The snow’s thick on the ground and it’s prime hunting season in the alps: 12 blokes to every one of you, a ratio calculated at apres ski in the Schuss Bar where women are severely outnumbered and hit upon at two-minute intervals.
It’s the one time of year where girls have the upper hand, able to peruse and choose at their leisure.
Of course no one wants quantity without quality and skiing is the great equaliser. At sea level, it’s about the salary. Above the treeline, it’s how well you ski. The pecking order is re-aligned.
Should the sheer choice overwhelm you, here’s a guide to the vast array of options.
Bachelor Boys: packs of single men in their 30s so obsessed with skiing they’re prepared to forego sex for it. A girl’s gotta go black diamond to be noticed, dropping off The Bluff and cutting their line.
Similar to Crack of Dawners who catch the first lift of the day wearing T-shirts saying “no friends in fresh” (meaning friends are left behind as you fight to get to the fresh powder first).
Not to be confused with Crack of Nooners who buy late-start lift tickets because they passed out drunk in the drying room.
Lodgies: members of exclusive alpine lodges with the rights passed down through generations. They wear SOS ski suits and arrive en masse at the Keller Bar after Pictionary. They share rooms with bunks, so beware an invite back.
Mogul Mouths: Talk up their black diamond prowess way beyond their means. They wear sunnies and no beanie, even in a blizzard, and T-shirts saying: “Just because I’ll sleep with you tonight doesn’t mean I’ll ski with you tomorrow”.
Ski Instructors: You’ll swoon at their pole position but don’t be sucked in by the Austrian accent. They’ll be back there by spring.
Shredders: Gen-Y, wear their pants around their knees and don’t date skiers. Often sleep in their car.
Village Idiots: wear bear suits and court jester hats and usually can’t ski.
Euros: distinct for one-piece ensembles and faux fur hats. Too much cash, so little time.
The snow’s the only place in the world where it’s quite acceptable, encouraged even, to loiter under a sign saying “single” and shout out your status to the crowd. You can suss out the lift queue potential before deciding to be single then snare yourself a captive audience for the next seven minutes.
Speed dating at 1.9m. Three to choose from on the Kosciusko Express quad, seven on Perisher’s double quad. Should you not warm to your chairlift companions, it’s not considered rude to ski off and never see them again. If, on the contrary, you do, it’s not considered stalking to trail them down the hill.
But if looking for long-term love, the slopes might not be the place. There’s an unwritten edict on the National Park gates that what goes on beyond the gates, stays there.
The shackles come off and men behave badly. Many contract alpine amnesia, forgetting they’re married and easing into sleazy pick-up lines oblivious to their sudden loss of monopoly in these higher climes.
Problem is, they’ll just as likely forget you on the way out. Strange things occur, like underwear parties where the guests do nothing but dancing in jocks and socks. At a ratio of 12:1, of course. I know. I saw it.
If this appeals, you’ve got eight weeks before the odds slide back to normal with the thaw.Don’t say you weren’t warned.