I’m on the forty-five minute trek to the office on Melrose and I could care less about the traffic in Los Angeles sometimes. There’s always something intriguing to look at, or of course, mountains in the distance. Especially with my Starbucks in hand, nothing can stop me in the mornings. Not even that bored trophy-wife in her pristine $80K Range Rover who’s going to pick up breakfast somewhere because she can’t cook anything herself.
You could interpret it as jealousy, but let me map out the situation a little. The nose of my Toyota Camry was slightly past the stop sign, in the way of perpendicular traffic including Trophy Wife’s diamond of an automobile. Trophy Wife shoo-shooed me with her skinny, long fingers and paired the motion with three honks and a disparaging face to match.
Just so you know, that doesn’t fly with me. Los Angeles, I loved everything about you until I saw the new money, upper-class snobs gracefully swagging around like they own the ground I walk on (if swagging isn’t a word, it is now).
With a smile on my face, I turned and sped to catch up with Range Rover. I had to weave a little bit, but I sure as hell made sure to ride down that street nearly attached to the side of her car like a parasite. A Camry probably looks to her like a parasite anyway. I beeped and waved with a smile, and beeped and waved with a smile, making sure she didn’t miss the contrast of our gestures.
It’s in situations like this where I find humor, so thank you, Trophy Wife, I hope your hair didn’t get out of place in the moments I was pissing you off. And thank you for helping me to understand that money isn’t everything- not even in Los Angeles.