The other midnight, while on Hollyweird’s no longer secret throughway of Fountain Ave, I found my lil’ sporty car revving up its engine while impatiently crawling behind a clunker. For those of you who haven’t had the privilege of sitting in traffic on this one-lane residential street running in between the freak-show of Sunset Boulevard and the parking lot of Santa Monica Boulevard, it is still one of the more reliable routes to take if you don’t ever wanna be the douche who walks-in late for a meeting — or an audition, or a dinner reservation — and says:
“Gosh! The traffic!”
Oh really? Traffic in LA-LA, eh? Shocker. Must the gay people’s parade out there, or something, huh?
Normally, when wasting my life in traffic, I’d resort to one of two choice: either I swear colorfully enough to make the other drivers’ outer ears wilt, or I think of Eckhart Tolle and pretend to meditate. But at midnight?
“WHY in the bloody, fuckin’ Dickens am I going at 3-fuckin’-miles an hour — with NO other cars in sight?!” I thought, and began to spew out hefty nicknames I’d call the driver of the clunker if ever that moron and I had a face-to-face encounter.
I was sitting behind him at a red light, waiting to make the left turn that would finally liberate me from his retarded choice of speed, when the passenger door flung open and a gorgeous creature leapt out onto the street. She was petite, in some shiny, skin-tight Cat Woman outfit, with a bouncy bob of glossy black hair. In twelve-inch heels, she jetted for the sidewalk, leapt up onto the curb and started walking. By the temper of her strut, and the swing of her elbows, and the hesitant stall of the clunker once the light switched to green (the poor fucker forgot where he was going!), I quickly realized that I was witnessing a relationship dispute.
Now, a long, long time ago — this cat’s several lifetimes ago, to be precise — my love affairs used to have that sort of a dramatic feel to them as well. Now, don’t get me wrong, my comrades: Especially in the beginning, my lovers were always beautiful and love-worthy — of various nations and tongues, professions and talents, physical attributes and endowments, age groups and income; with unpredictable hairlines and bodily hair. Oh, they were lovely! Really! But that’s, of course, until an affair would start going to shit (and let’s not kid ourselves: we all know when a relationship does a one-eighty toward the unavoidable break-up); at which point, no matter how much I’ve tried to brace myself for grace and some degree of gratitude during the transition, it would always get dirty.
Not really a flaky or fearful partner (and because as an ex-Soviet, I accept suffering as part of the deal), I would still try to stick around “to fix it”. But once there are cancer cells in the body of a relationship, most likely it is time to wrap-up all the loose ends and with a heavy realization of its unavoidable demise, just ask:
“Doctor? How long do I have left?”
The mess that followed my departures (and I would always be the one to leave: https://fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com/about/) would take years to clean-up; often accompanied by astronomical phone bills due to all the sorting-out and the fishing-for-forgiveness conversations. Or should I call them “fights”? Hmm… Yep: They were fights! Often unclean and unfair, loaded with lists of mutual grievances and tears; and a certain degree of my hyperventilation, because once again, I wasn’t sure where I had gone wrong…
Now, wait up! Wait up a second here, V!
Actually, with enough honest examinations of my inner and outer selves, I have to confess: I always knew when shit wasn’t right. Yep, I’ve seen the red flags and the signs of messy things to follows. Yet still, I would impatiently rev-up my inner engine and drive right over them — and into the arms of a man wrongly suited for me from day one. And once in them — in those moderately or plentifully haired arms — I would continue to speed toward the Committed Relationship chapter of the affair. More red flags would pop-up; yet I’d be in the zone, jacking-up my speedometer, Danika Patrick style. And I would continue to stubbornly ignore my intuition — until the routine of the relationship would finally set in; at which point, I’d have NO choice but to slow down, eventually pull over, and collect all the self-violation tickets.
Okay, you get the metaphor, my comrades.
So, when the Cat Woman leapt out of that obviously ill-suited for her magnificence vehicle the other night, I had to remember my own stunts of jumping out of derailed relationships and my lovers’ moving chariots. So, what did I do? I U-turned, my lovelies! (Illegally, of course!) Because I too had suffered enough and could empathize with the Cat Woman’s Walk of Freedom. And although I couldn’t help her with cleaning-up her poor choices and patterns, it was my civic — womanly — duty to ensure her safety that night.
Again, I sped, with my very ovaries pushing on the pedal. But by the time I caught-up to our gorgeous kitten’s trajectory, she had already gotten back into the clunker.
“Well,” I thought. “She hadn’t had enough yet!”
So, I said a prayer for our Cat Woman’s safety, hoping that she would always land on her feet; wished for clarity in her next life — and sped off home.