Jetsetter

In the last 48 hours I've been in three cities, three timezones and two continents. Were it not for the fact that the airlines treated me like the other cattle in the herd, I would indeed be the quintessential jetsetter.

From my miserable trip to London back to New York yesterday afternoon and then Houston tonight, I seriously questioned why I'm drawn like a moth to a flame to the idea of travel when I'm repeatedly disrespected, denied and demoralized by airport personnel. Surprisingly, London had the nicest airport employees. This anomaly was eclipsed by the two hour, inexcusable line through immigration at Gatwick. I wouldn't have been so stressed if fun Bobby hadn't been waiting impatiently outside. But there he was in his PF Flyers and leather jacket as I merged through the gates of hell.

It took us two hours to get from the airport to Mayfair where my roommate's hotel, expensed to her hedge fund, was. On the way, I got a lecture on how I needed to embark on a 12 step program of my own. Not because I was an alcoholic like fun Bobby but because I lacked the fortitude and insight to carve out a happy life for myself. "The hardest thing you have to learn is that it's absolutely none of your business what other people think of you," he said. But that's the only thing about other people that IS my business! Tsk, tsk, he clicked his tongue in dismay at how far I needed to go before reaching the nirvana he had embraced. Whatever. This from the man who should have his picture next to the word selfish in the dictionary. Still, I had high hopes for this reunion despite every signal that history would repeat itself.

But a series of emails preceding my visit had convinced me that maybe this time would be different. I realize that repeating the same behavior in the hopes of a different outcome is the definition of insanity but I've never pretended to strive for sanity, just love or something resembling a comfort zone that lulls you into thinking it's OK to settle. Anyhoo, he kept insisting that I have brunch with him on Sunday. Every email: I'll pick you up from the airport on Saturday morning and we'll have a lovely lunch on Sunday. Every single one. So I was locked in to these plans. But when he insisted I give him the shoes I had bought from New York because everything is cheaper here than the UK, I was skeptical. He was a bit evasive but I didn't think anything of it. Maybe he's just playing it cool and really wants his shoes. When Sunday rolled around, I got a text message saying he had a bunch of errands including a meeting with his sponsor for another "moral inventory" that he had been putting off and didn't appear to have time. I was too sleepy to care at first until my roommate pointed out how shitty this was. She had a family engagement she couldn't miss and both of us thought I'd be hanging with him. So I spent the day in Harrod's by myself. Just like I had the last trip to London when he was in the throes of a terrible and sudden bout of depression. When my roommate met me in the Louis Vuitton section of the store that afternoon, my eyes brimmed with tears.

There's nothing worse than the moment you realize that you've allowed yourself to hope in vain for something as ill-fated as my romance with fun Bobby. And nobody who's been privy to this roller coaster of a relationship gets it. But now I've seen him in every climate: drunk, recovering, depressed, sober, and what I thought was at last sober/normal. But what I finally get is normal is selfish for some people. Or maybe he's the king of self-sabotage. Who knows? What I know for sure is that nothing good can come from this union, our countless second chances have proven that once and for all.