Fifty Shades of Blue

I admit it.  I’m paranoid.  Not the type of psychosis that warrants me a vacation at the “Hotel Paranoia”, that lovely paradise where I get to wear white, ingest legal drugs and get catered to by people just like me called “doctors”, but the chronic, nagging feeling that the government and my kids are listening in on ALL my conversations and  that every police car will inevitably pull me over. So when this past Sunday,  I heard the dreaded “YELP” of the police siren,  my heart dived into my stomach as my pulse pounded  to the beat of  Johnny Cash’s  “Folsom Prison Blues”.  Though I look amazing in Orange, I hate sharing a room with someone of questionable character who might snore. That’s why I got divorced.

After a few seconds, I forced myself to regain my composure, since it wasn’t a convenient time for me to have a heart attack.  I had an appointment to do my nails, thread my eyebrows and wax my legs and I didn’t want to go to the hospital as a hairy,uni-browed felon with chipped nail polish.  After all, I’d probably have to be handcuffed to a bed the whole time and I would die from the shame of it.  Maybe I was leaping to unfeasible consequences.  Could it be the officers just wanted to post a review of my driving/parking skills online and give me five stars?  Were they really the Fashion Police?  Was it a surprise “half” birthday party? I would soon find out.  OH, in case I forgot to omit this minute detail…..I was parked; right In front of the nail salon.

On cue, a slew of nail technicians and various sadistic rubberneckers flooded the area like the paparazzi swarming around A Khardashian wedding.   I just hoped that I would photograph well in my mug shot and that the florescent lighting wouldn’t age me TOO much.   I believe that women of a certain age should only be seen in soft, warm candlelight or more preferably, the dark.  Maybe I would be able to request Annie Liebovitz  to take my “portrait”.  As usual, my brain was a grand canyon ahead of the reality of the situation.  I would, first, of course, have to call Ben Brafman and come up with a $50,000 retainer.  Surprisingly, the officers pulled up beside me and requested I lower my window as opposed to striding over and staring me down as if I was Charles Manson fleeing the scene of my latest murder spree.  The crowd was growing as my trepidation increased.

“It’s ok Miss, you’re allowed to park here. You looked like you thought you couldn’t”. 

The cop was psychic.  I wondered if “Tarot cards 101” was also included in the police training manual (at least he didn’t call me “Ma’am”)

“I got scared, I thought I did something wrong, guess I’m a bit paranoid”, I sheepishly replied as I exhaled with relief.

“We were just lookin’ at ya and we’re not used to seeing an attractive woman, such as yourself, in this neighborhood.  I hope we didn’t scare you”.   

Was this his way of getting women?  Guess it’s hard to turn down a man packing a gun and cuffs.  Visions of Christian Grey and a permanent PBA card floated in my brain as I coquettishly smiled back at him. 

“Of course not officer.  I’m just a bit paranoid sometimes.  Guess I‘ve been living in NYC too long”.

At that precise moment, my local shoemaker appeared to attempt to save me from a stint with the chain gang.

“Are you ok”? (since he’s Russian, it came out  “CHHaar you OK?”)  Was he going to help me escape or offer the cops new soles if they release me?

“No worries, they just pulled over to issue me a compliment”.   My courting date is yet to be determined”.

As the cops pulled away, some concerned lingerers asked me how I was and a pretty good feeling tugged at my heart.  Maybe the world was still salvageable and yes,  my manicure is flawless