I won’t sugarcoat it, folks: It’s not looking good. Life coaches are now promising to help you access your divine feminine/masculine with AI-generated content. Your algorithm is constantly shooting you in the face with GLP-1 ads. (Nice try but I’d rather die than lose this Sanitas-built ass.) And the creek level? The shirtless Eben G. Fine guys can’t even cold plunge without planking on the rocks. Also, I got called “ma’am” by the University Bikes guy and I may just kill myself.
What I’m trying to say is that this might be the last Boulder summer ever. Even if the world doesn’t end, it’s gonna be scarcity mindset from here on out — and honestly, being older than the average University Bikes guy feels like the end of the world at this point.
But not this summer. This summer we kiss that freaky dude, wear that big stupid sunhat, drink that Boxcar coldbrew on an empty stomach and then eat that entire bag of Paonia cherries, toilet paper prices be damned. This summer we dance. Oh, and here’s how:
She’s the hottest, most mandala-tatted, single-mommy-est yoga teacher in town. You’re fresh off a divorce and your midlife crisis is manifesting as a Yoga Pod membership as you embrace your performative breathing era.
What’s the worst that could happen? She rejects you and switches to teaching Power Flow 2 because she knows you’re not fit enough to do the class? Yeah, that’s pretty bad. But you won’t get another summer to make such a degradingly bad choice, so stop wasting time liking all her booty Instagram stories and blow up everyone’s life with a DM.
No, not with Craig; he’s been pretty fried since ’94 and I wouldn’t trust him to belay me on a scrambly 5.7. I mean that everyone needs to chill the fuck out at the climbing walls. Life is too short to be the coolest unemployed asshole at Upper Animal World at 2 p.m. on a Wednesday, so put down your too-pristine Boulder Canyon Rock Climbs (2nd ed.) and embrace. the. cringe.
I know what you’re thinking. “Does that mean scrambling the First Flatiron on acid with full moon in Scorpio?” I mean really sketchy, truly dangerous territory. Ask the high schooler at Sweet Cow for samples of three flavors, minimum, even though you know you’ll just get Joe’s Cookie Butter anyway. Tell the entire story of your inpatient treatment to the captive bouncer at Nitro. Go to a Jeff and Paige concert as a 30-year-old woman in luteal phase with quickly expiring ovaries and try not to have an emotional breakdown.
“How do you go from always pursuing serious relationships to having a casual summer of love?”
Are you someone that your friends call a “serial monogamist”? Or worse, are you someone who calls themselves a serial monogamist and then makes the “cereal monogamist” pun and then someone calls you out because they already made that joke on Black Mirror?
Either way, sounds like you’re tired of catching feelings and curious about the heated thrill of catching HPV. From one veteran Boulder slut to a new recruit, living that casual Boulder life is all about clearly and kindly communicating that you’re only looking for fun.
You can do this by taking your date to a yoga class taught by your mom and introducing them to your mom as “your special friend” like a divorced dad bringing home his date to meet his high school-aged children. Alternatively, you can give off clear, impossible-to misinterpret, fling-only vibes by sending a potential lover AI-generated pictures of what your children would look like with the follow-up, “Hey, would you mind not leaving your toothbrush next time?”
“I’m moving to Denver in May, what will I miss about Boulder summer?"
Nothing, probably! I mean, Denver also has an Avanti to get plastered at with a bunch of fade haircuts, also has Illegal Petes margs, and they talk shit about Boulder even more than Boulder talks shit about Boulder.
There’s nothing to miss, really. Definitely not the metallic taste of the Ward water spigot after a grueling ride up Lefthand. Definitely not seeing the OG Eagles cover band The Long Run close their Band on the Bricks set with “The Long Run.” And you definitely won’t miss the feeling of a slightly-wet joint shared with your undercover lover, who made you breakfast and promises on the porch of their Pine street sublet before moving to RiNo for a tech job.
“What are the rules for bush grooming for summer creeking?”
Have you seen those groovy pictures of Boulder in the ’70s with the far-out, hairy papas and all-natty mommas? Ever wonder why everyone looks so happy? Yes, it’s the fact that they were about to buy a sick Victorian on Mapleton Hill for $400k and become your future slumlord, but it’s also because everyone had glorious CARPETS that looked fine as hell when the Dream Canyon golden hour filtered through ’em.
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