My Journey With I-40

Facebook post July 7, 2012.   So I can't tell if my life has been sheltered, privileged, or both. Earlier this week I attended a party in The Highlands at which I made a terrible faux pas (it was my mouth….again). The celebration was built in part around a young woman's birthday. Upon the make-a-wish segment of the traditional blowing-out-the-candles ritual, I said "Make sure you wish for something realistic….not like to lose a hundred pounds or anything like that," (or some equally numbing fascimile). Of course, in hind-site, I realize this was thoughtless and stupid but, also of course, I meant nothing by it except to inject a bit of humor in what otherwise had the makings of somewhat of a stale tradition. I don't know the young woman very well, and didn't and don't see her as anything other than an attractive young woman. I didn't notice her weight or any issue with it, and, certainly if I had, or if there were, I would not have made such a comment, thoughtless and stupid or otherwise. Net net, I created a stir. Confirmation came moments later when the offended's husband cornered me in the kitchen to berate me, loudly and candidly, citing something about bashing my f'in face in. It was at that moment I realized the seriousness of my action. I quickly made the necessary apologies to the affected parties…and fled. First, and this is the foundation of my opening question of being sheltered….I've never been yelled at before. I mean in-your-face, I'm-going-to-kill-you yelled at. It took me back a bit, and the best response I could muster was immediate retreat. (My quick decision to abandon ship was built around traditional PR principles with which I had grown up: quickly accept blame, keep your words disciplined, allow them to talk about you, give it time, and it will likely fade, if not go away). 
I didn't drive to the party and, as such, I wasn't driving home. So I began the 16.2 mile trek to Anchorage from the Highlands, at a snails pace, with no identification, accoutrements or liquids, at 9:30 p.m. Five hours later, I landed at 1116 Bellewood Rd. (this is the part where I question privilege), having encountered vagabonds, police, underpass communities and citizens of a world to which I have never been privy. I now know where sidewalks begin and end, where darkness hides pathways riddled with cavities, and how teenage passers by can cut the soul of a 40-something year-old man with the blade of a simple few words.
With little time to contemplate my next move (certainly a manse on 10 manicured acres in the center of Anchorage was not the place to do it), I decided to head to the mountains on a journey to understand people, me and…in general, life (remember this comes only weeks after a questionable version of finality to a relationship in which I was deeply hurt). I packed a bag, left a tub of food for the cat, made my departure known to just a few, and began my six-hour journey to North Carolina. 
As the sun paid tribute to the glorious Blue Ridge Mountains that define Asheville (my car taken on a shaggy puppy that had found its way onto I-40) and with a water-downed Diet Mountain Dew that I acquired hours earlier just outside of Tennessee, I began my spiritual exercise. I thought about why people yell at people, I thought about relationships and the pain that accompany them. I thought about why it's so difficult for me to trust and wonder why I hurt the ones I love the most. I thought about the pregnant kitten I took in days before and wondered how she was faring in the 100-degree heat. And I thought about what I was going to do with the astray whelp that I had fostered for the day and that I had insipidly named I-40. 
After only hours of reflection, contemplation and some degree of spiritual pondering where I worked to understand people, life, relationships, decisions and things, I shook the dirt from my pants, rounded up I-40, and began the second half of my journey--this part to home. 

From the perspective of a lost soul atop a ridge, intimated by the massiveness of nature in the most humid place I've ever suffered contemplation, my accomplishments are benign. Besides salvaging a puppy that I relinquished to an altruistic Day's Inn agent on the skirt of town, I'm pretty sure I don't understand people and their actions any more than I did when I started. I'm no less frustrated by the constants of life, and I will continue to hurt the ones I love the most, and likely vise versa. I do, however, have a greater appreciation for the correct word at the correct time; I understand that relationships may never be understood; and I can't nor should I change that which makes me, me; and I shouldn't expect others to change that which makes them, them. I also know that pregnant kittens are helpless, dogs on highways are scared, and that my calves still hurt from my 16-mile trek. :)