The Mysteries of Life

At this moment, I am sitting by a pool and pondering life’s little mysteries. There are the standard questions “How did I get here?”, “What is my purpose?”, “Why is the world fascinated by Paris Hilton, and where did she get those shoes?”. You know, the deep ponderings of our generation. But in addition to those time honored thoughts, I’m exploring new mysteries.

1. Why doesn’t my apartment magically clean itself when I’ve clearly put it into the universe that I would like this to be so? I mean, I’ve done the Bewitched nose wiggle and the I Dream of Jeannie arms-crossed-head-bob move. Surely, it should be done by now. Is there actually a button on my TV remote that I should be pushing instead?

2. How do all those celebrities get golden perfect tan skin all up and down, and front and back? On my best day, I get random red blotches with intermittent white patches where the suntan lotion has stubbornly clung to life.

Also, not one picture of Jessica Alba shows her sporting the white stripe in that crease section between her bum and the top of her thighs. Does she prop her ass up in the air so that it all tans? Or is it that my absolutely enormous buttocks actually block out the sun? Being of unsound mind and fragile ego, I will not dwell on gigantic bottom issues and attribute flawless buttock/thigh tanning to a special secret that only the rich and famous know. Perhaps it is issued along with the Amex black card.

3. Do hot cab drivers exist? And if so, what exactly do you do when you encounter this rare specimen? I know. I didn’t believe it was possible, either. Sure, a casting director could hire an actor to play a hot cabbie, but in real life, Paul Walker is not answering my friend Chloe’s 2am bar call. And if he did, we really wouldn’t know anything about her approach because we would never find out more than what she could fit on her postcard after they eloped to Fiji.

The premise sounds like a fallacy, but a friend of mine claims to have met a hot cab driver, and he flirted, leaving her frantically trying to figure how to respond. So, she did what every red-blooded American female over 35 would do. Nothing. Well, she may have tipped him over-generously, but otherwise, nada.

So, what do you do in this situation? There’s an easy answer—slip him your phone number with the tip and bat your eyelashes.

But, really?

This guy knows where she lives. What if FHC (flirty hot cabbie), turns out to actually be more like CHC (crazy hot cabbie), MHC (murderous hot cabbie), or IMoMWTotbSHC (international man of mystery who turns out to be sadistic hot cabbie). I mean, Ted Bundy was cute, too. Do you invite the attentions of someone who knows your name, address and very possibly your credit card number before you have had a chance to get a full name, or have his fingerprints run?

It is remotely possible that my innate sense of paranoia and suspicion of most things relating to other people could be clouding my judgment. Slightly. So, I’ll leave this life mystery in your capable hands. Email or leave a comment with your thoughts, and I’ll pass them along. Should she have gone for it? Should she spend a lot in cabs hoping she “accidentally” runs into him, again? And if she spends $40,000 on cabs, can she still claim that “fate brought them together” during her wedding toast?

In the meantime, I’m going to start collecting the numbers of some of LA’s finest taxi services. No reason.


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