Gusts kicked up and pelted the windshield with early-autumn rain drops. Our headlights swept across the shiny black asphalt illuminating swirls of fallen brown leaves and discarded plastic bags.Up ahead, rows of neo-boom time houses, all faux stucco and desperate archways, appeared. Forgotten jack-o-lanterns slumped on porches, their triangle eyes guarding their owner's leased luxury vehicles.
We’d arrived. We’d entered the suburban Land of Blahs. This is a place where newly-built homes yearn to be grand, want to burst with Z Gallery furnishings and stylish up-n-comers. Maybe it was the rain or the empty lots where promised homes never materialized or maybe it was my own version of Aesop’s sour grapes, but it just felt like a let-down.
What? Me Worry?
The two of us, my beau and I, snug inside the car, peered through the darkened windows in search of the correct address. We were headed for a party, and not just any party. I was going to meet his ex at this particular gathering.
The two had parted amicably, which can be a land mine for reunions. There’s no hatred urging them to Go to your corners, combatants! or to seek solace among friendly supporters. No, these two had catching up to do, and I would play witness to their cheery reporting out.
You have nothing to be concerned about, I told myself. We’re solid. We’d been through years of light fun and dark tragedy, and we’d come out the other side not only intact, but also desiring each other’s company.
My emotions stood in contrast to this Land of Blahs, an internal ball of nerves set against a dull canvas.
What’s Not to Like?
We met, the ex and I: pleasant smiles. We shook hands: appropriate firmness. We chatted: party banter. I drank: hearty Zinfandel.
She was fine, just fine. No gaudy frumpiness, no obnoxious non-stop talking or infuriating single syllabic grunts. No freakish tics, snorts or inappropriate ass-scratching. No screwball references to UFOs or the Bermuda triangle.
There’s nothing here for me to dislike, I surmised. In some weird way, I was disappointed. Too much over-thinking, too much build-up in my head. Where’s the passion I’d expected?
Our Story Takes a Turn
But hold your horses, dear readers. The story doesn’t end here. It was getting late. Leaned up against the forest green kitchen counter was my man, holding a drink, with a look that said, I’m ready to go. You ready to go?
Just as I sidled up next to him, so did his ex. He was now flanked by two women: one who once held an important place in his life, and one who currently holds a similar place. Poor guy was unwittingly out-maneuvered in a battle of strained civility.
And she started in with a round of interrogation: Have you been riding? How’s your house? And moved into more familiar territory: How’s your mother? Have you been back to any of the restaurants you enjoy? And into the personal: Remember that fun place we stayed in Hawaii? How about that time in Sonoma?
Each comment was punctuated with a hand on his arm and a lean into his personal space. A friendly gesture? Glurg. What’s going on in my gut?
Physiological Response to Stress
More flustered than flattered, he was pushed back against the granite counter top. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. His eyes darted around like a proverbial cornered animal. His cheeks were red, his breathing labored. One more step, and his foot would be on the dog food bowl. I swear this is all true!
I set my face with a most serene Buddha smile. Is this was the passion I’d counted on?
Fingers hooked in his collar, and he pulled it loose as he grimly implored, Is it me!? Or is it really hot in here!? Sweat dripped from his neck, a hard swallow.
In unison, she and I demurred, No. I feel perfectly fine.
Escape at Any Cost
Out on the street, he praised the cool night air and thanked the gods for blessed freedom. And then ran a red light at the first intersection.
Ahh! Finally, some passion in the Land of Blahs.
