Traffic In My Horizon

The smartest thing I did was walk away. My search for the purity and uncomplicated qualities of love was futile. At least for the time being. Just like a movie or fairy tale, dynamic lovers are destined together only at the very end. As if that anticipation made them better for it. Made them appreciate where they now stood.

Many times I considered getting into my car and driving. Driving miles and miles to where he lay, and in my head I always considered the lovelies that would pour out of my mouth, past my lips. I considered silence. I considered notes and gestures and tears and laughter. The uncertainty always tore at me. Without faith or program, I would seek him. Without conviction I would face this wrath, the fury that uncertainty had bled into my veins. As if resolving to conquer would perhaps resolve me of this frenzy, as if getting it off my chest, years from when this was first founded could further ease the pain.

It’s so simple. So simple to fall in love with a fantastic woman you met on a plane to Paris, so much so that with just her first name and the name of a chain hotel she’d be staying at, you find her, by calling every hotel in the country. So simple to sit at a bar, third beer in hand, gaze over to that charming man sitting alongside you, laugh, and realize that all you want is him, genuinely and holistically. So simple to stride past that same woman at the company salad bar – for years – not say a word. Be captivated by her elegance, the pencil skirt that grazes her the skin between her tanned lean calves and her thighs, her slender wrists and the charming gusto with which she speaks to other men, men behind the counter. You can only wonder how she’d speak to you, with you, alongside you. You can only wonder how her legs would feel as they skimmed along yours, wrapped together into you, how they would look in the bright sunlight that shone in at 7AM, if her right leg would be hooked around your wrinkled sheets. So simple to wake up next to the man that you’ve been sleeping and waking up next to for the past 8 years and realize how lucky you are, how handsome his supple skin looks against the harsh August sun beaming in mid-afternoon, gently coaxing you in and out of slumber on beautiful summer Saturdays. How handsome he looks when he stands from bed, the sheets unraveling and winding down from his waist as he’s reaching down for the small wire rimmed glasses on the nightstand that will delicately be held in place by the refined bridge of his nose. So simple to resentfully desire your best friend’s fiancé. To know that you’d willingly realign the stars in order to change your fates. To realize that it needs to be said said, to recognize though that, sometimes, enough is enough. So simple to usher into a train directly across a lively and energetic toddler. To wave, smile, laugh, coo. To sense, too, an overwhelming calm, a crushing restlessness. To understand that it’s all so simple and it’s everywhere.

Jon

CAVEAT: This is a work of fiction. Thanks.

Now there was something so sexy and exotic about him, like those croc heels you only want to wear after dark. He was the first Latino man I’ve ever dated, and I guess like shoes, one must really try it on for size before deeming them outright nonsensical. Our first meeting wasn’t exactly spectacular, but something about that olive-toned, smooth face made me look twice. Sure, there I was, slightly inebriated and playfully flirting with my friend's 50-ish co-worker. It must’ve been how I shot him down and he had to pick himself back up after coyly joining in on a joke he wasn’t invited to, but heck, maybe it was the way I cocked my head back, twirled my hair and smiled that led him to offer up his business card and a copy of his magazine's August issue, his media calling card for press whores everywhere.

After some friendly email exchange a week later, we were well on our way to Absolute Rio, New York’s expensively Amazonian-clad version of the mysteriously spicy island it was named for, and accompanied by this fiery advertising execs’ imposing view of money, sluts and cars, I knew I was well on my way of running in the other direction. I had a considerable Amazonian task myself, looking him in the eye as the blur of numbers streaming from his lusciously full lips made me dizzy with disgust. Three beers, one major bout of alcohol spillage later, I was walked to my train stop, I wouldn’t see him for three weeks.

“So how have you been stranger? Didn’t hit the right chords?” is what I found in the ether that is my inbox early on a Wednesday afternoon. Considering our disregard with following up straight after the date, I’d say it was a near disaster, but I was intrigued. I had to respect his persistence and though not timely, his follow up. Several emails later – with sexier banter underway – with references to each other as a “ stud-ly Casanova” and a “sexy minx,” even “kinda cute,” we decided it appropriate to give date number two a try.“Kinda cute?” he asked.“Yep, and I ‘kinda’ had a good time last time…”

Perhaps bad karma was meant to trickle my way regardless, but the premise of arranging this second date laid on the hard fact that I was going to be ultimately teaching this Jon a lesson. Intrigued? Sure, but was it right for him to assume that after 3 weeks of no calls, no emails, that a girl should still be captivated? He was awestruck that no call had been made on my behalf that no swooning came to par and this ultimately crushed his spirit, he was definitely the type of man who wanted the upper hand.

Boudoir, a sleek new lounge situated on 8th and 16th was our next stop. I thankfully arrived with enough time to pull it together in the restroom. I was wearing my forest green flowing dress with my hand-carved wooden beaded necklace that accentuates the grand bosom earned since religiously taking birth control for about 3 years. I decide to arrange myself at the bar, await his presence and seal that deal with a killer smile, legs crossed elegantly underneath the soft glow of the bar’s amber mood lighting.Sometimes, though, these moments live only in one’s fantasy. So much for looking like the sexy vixen he came to worship… after tripping on another woman’s jacket I hear a familiar voice.“Hey, already causing chaos?”Ass in the air, I stumble forward, nearly tumbling over my own feet, coyly smile with an embarrassed flush sweeping across my face.

We sat, we drank, we talked. Mostly about electronics and work – a point of contention with me as that topic did little to inspire me to brave another outing with this jerk again. Alas, but here I was again, and almost as if God came down and decided to put me in my place, I started liking him. Really. Aside from his rude social mannerisms and his pompous attitude, he was really an alright “kinda” guy.

After a quick smoke break we decide to head East to the distilled version of the happiest, 80s-fantastic, yet AquaNet-free place on earth. We plop down at one of the back banquets at Joshua Tree. We are enclosed not only by the sights and sounds of legendary one-hit-wonders of the 80s and 90s, all on huge flat screens enveloping the entire joint, but by each other.“So, what are you doing?” I ask as he stares at me.“Oh, just waiting until you finally kiss me” he says. There started the make-out fest that would keep us both hungry for more than just criminal gazes and youthful amusement and finally met us at my train stop – each of us on one side of the metal gate, voraciously lip-locked.

The last time I was to ever see Jon I am convinced I proceeded to piss a man off more than I have in my entire life. Not only did he drive to New Jersey from his native New York, but I then proceeded to get him drunk, single-handedly hand his ass to him in a game of cards and carted him off to bed, without so much as fooling around.

After stocking up on movies and endless snack possibilities, we made frozen margaritas, laughed and played. Come 4AM, we’re crammed together on my loveseat opposite the television that was now fixated on pre-dawn infomercials. 7AM crawls in, the sun beginning to shine on the polished wooden floorboards.

“Hey, it’s 7AM, are you going to make me drive home now?”

“Yep,” I reply.

“Are you serious? It’s too early, let’s get into your bed, it’s more comfortable.”

I hastily agree to such terms – when a woman’s mind is made up about not sleeping with a man, her mind’s made up, though – it was early though and I did need some real rest.I crawl into bed after topping my tank with a long sleeve knit. Still in jeans I embrace my pillow, facing the wall and close my eyes. Jon climbs in, strokes the small of my back.

“Man, you’re wearing a lot of clothes!”

“Yeah, I’m cold,” I retort, “What are you wearing?”

“Just my boxers…”I turn to face the wall and fall asleep.

Few hours later, I awoke. Fresh faced and eager to face the world I proceed to twirl around in my sheets, impatiently attempting to awake Sleeping Beauty from his rejuvenating slumber. He leaves. Slightly angry. I can see it in his eyes. No follow up calls or emails ensue, this does not surprise me.One month later, the detective in me decides to stalk this former prey. He’s pictured in a Manhattan photo file – making out with another woman! I laugh. What else is there to do? I finally bid him adieu, smiling coyly. Jon last emailed me September 19, this photo is clearly dated September 8th. Vengeance is still served.

Cake -- Well it's for eating, no?

As for the saying "well you just want your cake and eat it, too" I ask... Well what good is cake if you don't eat it? And if you don't eat it right away, what good is stale cake? Can one just stare at cake and not be tempted to eat it... why would you bake it in the first place? Does one like to torture oneself? I know for damn sure that I like cake, I like cookies, too. I'll be damned if I go into the trouble of baking one, waiting for it to cool (oh the torture) icing it, then just not devouring it -- that is ludicrous. Does one wait for someone else to? I've never been the type to allow someone else to step into my territory, especially not my kitchen that holds the cooling rack that gracefully rests (best case scenario) an especially moist carrot cake.

I suppose this diatribe correlates nicely with relationships... Of course we all want that guy (or gal) and we want them with all the sides -- with regards to cake, that would be the icing, the sprinkles, even the funny silver colored metal sprinkle balls that adorn the top of fancy cupcakes. Why should we expect any less though? Just like cake, why swallow flavorless clumps of dough? God only knows it contains the same calories, but it's just not as satisfying as a freshly baked chocolate (or carrot) cupcake with fresh buttercream icing and rainbow sprinkles... even if one must swallow a Lactaid pill before fully committing.

Luck -- Made, Inherited or a Depleting Resource?

I've always been quite the optimist. Sure, terrible things roll my way. Sparingly though, enough to give me hope, and actually enough to make me wonder when something awful is looming. A girl's gotta wonder, you know. How long can one make it before major disaster? How long before you fall down the stairs in a crowded restaurant? How long before you spill red wine on your snow-white cashmere sweater? How long before the ball is dropped on a major project? Before you fall in love with an incredibly handsome, impossibly tall, successful man, (who wears cute glasses to boot) and he dumps your ass -- just like that.
Don't you wonder? Does luck ever run out? Are some people naturally luckier than others. Does luck deplete like a natural resource? Can one just be lucky in some segments or facets of life -- and if so, can we will it to shift, just as money could in a bank account?