They say Park City has three seasons — ski, mountain bike and shoulder. With all due respect, I submit a fourth: construction season. Without it there would be no ski season. No mountain bike season. No iced matcha lattes with lavender foam purchased by a woman in a $500 yoga outfit while loudly discussing hormonal replacement therapy with three of her friends. I am a Park City traffic cone. All 36 inches of me, a proud public servant in the middle of our most important season — or what should be. You can’t miss me. I’m Day-Glo orange with silver reflective stripes. Yet most of the time you look right through me. On your way to, oh, I don’t know, a dog grooming appointment for your mini Berna doodle. I don’t get no respect. There is no construction season pass. No construction season opening day tailgate parties. No construction season gold medals. No one spends $14,000 a night to watch a backhoe reverse. But you better believe I’m doing way more than adding a pop of color to a pile of dirt. I was here when people complained about the millionaires. I remember when everyone hated a different roundabout. I once spent an entire summer blocking access to a parking lot that’s now a cryotherapy studio. Hell, I’ve been here longer than Tom Clyde’s been writing newspaper columns. I’ve been mowed over by Range Rovers, Subarus, Teslas and some dude with a bunch of face tattoos driving a G-wagon. Everyone assumes I was made in China. Wrong. New Jersey. Which is basically the Park City of traffic cones, wise guy. You’re all in such a big fat hurry to go somewhere. People fly by me and go, “WTF is up with all this construction?” Sir, I am the only thing standing between you and that 12-foot trench right behind me. Every day I successfully prevent dozens of you from driving into said trench and yet somehow I’m the bad guy. Why am I like this? Why couldn’t I be a cliff warning sign on a double black diamond? Or some orange safety fencing? Or a pine tree, even a fake one? I have a recurring dream that I’m an ice cream cone filled with tangerine gelato. At least when people see an ice cream cone, they smile. When people see me, they immediately ask Siri for directions to get the hell away from me. Everything is fine. I know my worth. I’m not perfect, but I’ve spent multiple winters stacked in a municipal warehouse reflecting on my anger-management issues. On a good day in the summer, I personally reroute 11,000 vehicles. Sure, I can be negative. Some people say I’m too defensive. But you try standing in direct sunlight for 16 hours protecting a trench. You might be a little cynical too. You don’t spend as much time as I do observing the world and not develop a bit of a chip on your shoulder. Just yesterday, two middle-aged men in Lycra stood next to me for 45 minutes mansplaining a prostate medication neither of them had actually taken. I’ve had border collies and black labs and golden retrievers stare directly into my soul before lifting a leg on my base. The other night, a drunk guy who’d wandered off from a bachelor party put me on his head and walked all the way down Main Street announcing he was on his way to Middle Earth. They say one day we’ll all be “smart” cones. With built-in sensors that can predict the weather, offer driving directions and make you a tuna melt. Dude, I already know everything I need to know. It’s called standing outside 24/7. Ya know what? You can have your ski season, your mountain bike season, your shoulder season. But I say construction season is the only true Park City season. It’s the one season where everyone — locals, tourists, lifties, billionaires, cyclists — is equally pissed off. Everyone has to wait by the flag guy on the old 40 highway. Everyone gets stuck behind a 20-ton dump truck going 15 mph up Deer Valley Drive. You might not realize it, but I’m doing the Lord’s work. I never ask for a raise or affordable housing or even a coffee break. Though I would appreciate just one fewer dog. There’s a fire hydrant right over there. Thanks in advance. And I have hope. Hope that one day construction season finally gets the respect it deserves. There will be stoke films and après celebrations and influencers posting selfies in hard hats. Wealthy Texans will spend 14 grand for first chair to a median-widening. Teenagers will mount collector’s edition traffic cones to their bedroom walls. Until that day, I’ll be here. Maybe a little more brittle and little bit faded. Just little old me. The only thing standing between you and a surprisingly deep hole. The post Betty Diaries: I am a Park City traffic cone appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less