The 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Skinny Dip at Park City Mountain Resort

Some people have a propensity for making a lot of money.

Others for being great with kids.

Mine is for repeatedly getting locked out in precarious situations.

With the kids. And without any money.

My family just returned from a ski trip to Park City Mountain Resort. I was on-assignment to do a write-up for Marketing Director Krista Parry’s new Web site, Snow Mamas. Hitting the slopes is a lifestyle that affords itself all kinds of pleasures and for us those included two days on the mountain, a daughter in ski school, a son in childcare, alpine-coastering and fine-dining at Zoom and Butcher’s Chophouse. (Read my official write-up here).

We stayed in a beautiful two-bedroom Town Lift Condominium. Our accommodations had all the luxuries of home with one huge bonus: a private hot tub on the deck. After hitting the slopes each evening, we would soak our bodies as we overlooked the pulse of Park City’s Historic District.

On one such night, we had been in the hot tub for about an hour when we decided to turn in for the night. My chivalrous husband Jamie hopped out of the tub to grab our towels inside. Or at least he tried–he turned the knob to the door and nothing happened. After a chilly 5-second investigation, he surmised that the door was unlocked but the handle was loose and practically falling off its hinges. He jumped back in the hot tub to warm up before repeating his attempt multiple times.


So, there we were: roasting in the hot tub with two little kids and no apparent way to get back into our room. Realizing the situation could quickly turn dire, I called down to a pedestrian on Main Street. He obligingly went to the condo’s lobby and had a staff member come out to assist us.

Kind of.

The staffer told us he would grab the key to our condo and let us back in. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. After about 15 minutes, I knew something was very wrong.

This was confirmed when the staffer stuck his head out the window of the neighboring condo.

“The door is locked,” he yelled.

No duh. Isn’t that what the hotel’s master key is for?

“I’m not talking about the dead bolt,” he expounded. “Someone put the chain on the door so we have no way to get in.”

That “someone” was me. And my little attempt at safety had proved to be quite the opposite.

I envisioned the fire department racing to the scene and a crowd gathering around snapping pictures as we were rescued from our second-floor entrapment. Our exposé would be included in the local newspaper and I would be infamous…in my bathing suit.

Not exactly Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition worthy.

Just as I was starting to have a panic attack, my faithful 4-year-old daughter suggested she say a prayer. Shortly after she explained her mother’s incompetency to The Man Upstairs, the staffer was able to break into the condo.

Despite all the drama, it could have been worse. Later that night after the kids had gone to bed, Jamie and I were surreptitiously planning a little skinny dip of our own.

Talk about front-page exposés.

Originally published at Mile High Mamas on February 16, 2009.

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