Christmas Bird

I was driving to my 12 step Coda meeting the other night. You know, the one where I'm supposedly learning to let go-- the one where I'm learning to accept people and situations for who and what they are and forgive, forgive, forgive.

I take unfamiliar highways because apparently there are so few people in the tri-state area who have control issues such as myself that I have to travel great distances to get there. AA meetings? Please. You can't go thirty yards without tripping over some grisly pack of loitering, smoking, over-caffeinated alcoholics. Their meetings are conveniently held everywhere and at all hours-- hundreds of open doors within a few square miles beckoning with hot coffee and folding chairs so that their personal demons can kibbutz and cavort with the voices in their heads.

But for those of us afflicted with a penchant for trying to control the stars' twinkling and the snows' falling ("No, no snowflake, you land there, and you land there..."), the ones who need to be tied down from helping out when help wasn't asked of us, the ones who see themselves through a giant pair of circus clown glasses, the lenses jam packed with the faces and imagined judgments of his or her community instead of just themselves-- for us, there are but a few scant meetings. So I drive.

On the way, I was signaling to get over into the right hand highway exit lane so that I might, you know, exit. (Exiting being the perceived key to me getting to my meeting, learning to let go and becoming a better person, a better friend and all around stellar human being.) The driver behind me and to my right wasn't giving me enough room to move over but wasn't passing me either. I felt myself winding up as my exit loomed closer and made the executive decision to bully my way over safely, but none the less, under driver's duress. The other car, now behind me, flashed his or her brights then passed me with no intention of ever exiting. That's when it hit me.

I must flip this person the Christmas Bird.

I must show him or her the err of his or her ways. Clearly, that's my job, right? My anointed duty to point out injustices, to right wrongs? To show people that they're not being Christian at Christmastime, even if they might be Jewish, Muslim or Agnostic? Christmas is no time to refuse someone entree into your lane when they're clearly using their directional signal. Would this person refuse a pregnant teenager a room at the inn? Probably. I had to do something. I had to act fast.

I reached for the electric window button to roll it down so that my Christmas Bird might be thrust into the brisk night air with poignancy and panache. In that split second I thought to myself, You know, Self, every one's safe, thank goodness. There were no egregious errors made, no resulting accident. Perhaps the other driver was locked in heated conversation or silently ruminating over some recent bad news. Or was blasting the radio, singing joyfully and full of such reverie and gusto to "Tainted Love" that they spaced out for a moment and didn't see your turn signal. Maybe the flashing lights were more of an "I'm Sorry" gesture than a "Hey, Jerkface." Sure, there could have been a small pinch of selfishness or aggression in the other driver's actions, but really, is it worth getting out the bird for?

"Heck, yes!" was my Self's reply.

So I pushed the down window button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. There was a minute lurch, but with no result. The window was frozen. There would be no Christmas Bird. Jesus, my co-pilot, laughed.
"What, Jesus," I snapped.
"Nothing," he smirked.
"No, what's so funny?"
"Your window's frozen shut."
"No, duh. Did you do that Mr. Miracle Man?"
"Didn't have to." He sunk down in his naugahyde seat and tried to muffle his snickering with his robes. I was pissed.

I took the exit ramp then said, "You know, Jesus, you think you're so funny."
"No, I-"
"Mister Love Everybody, Mister Kindness and Forgiveness, you try getting to your meeting on time. Oh, I forgot, you're so perfect, you don't need any meetings. It must be nice, feeling so superior all the time. And please take your grubby sandals off my dashboard."
Jesus sat up and after a moment casually reached for the radio's tuning knob and said, "Oh, c'mon, relax, I'm just trying to make light of a light situation."
"What, you're trying to tell me that it wasn't worth flipping the bird over?" I steamed.
He said nothing as he listened for a salsa station then found one and smiled.

We were on secondary roads now, the occasional evergreen boxwood wrapped in tiny lights twinkled. Passing all those lit up reindeer and blow-up Santas forced me to relax my grip on the steering wheel.
"What?" I asked guiltily.
"I was just wondering why you choose to take everything so personally. Other drivers, your family, your in-laws, watering your Christmas tree, gift-wrapping, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, shall I continue?"
"No," I sulked.
"It's not your job, you know. None of it is," he reasoned, "you are your only job."
"Ah, ha! What about my son?"
"Sure, you should clothe and feed him and love him, but ultimately--"
"Yeah, I've heard. I get it." I turned off the main road and pulled into the dark church parking lot. Warm bodies lit up the inside of the building.

Jesus asked, "That superhero feeling, the one where you feel responsible for righting wrongs and fixing everyone around you, how's that working for you?"
I pulled into a spot and turned off the ignition. The car ticked as the motor cooled.
"Sucks."
He started to crack a smile, which got so wide he had to turn his head away from me.
I got defensive, "Jesus, Jesus! So what do you want me to do then? Let me guess, be kind, love everyone, be forgiving, let go and let your Dad handle it? Your Dad, God, who supposedly got Mary, an innocent thirteen year old pregnant with you? Nice. Happy Birthday, by the way."
Jesus said, "I'm just saying try doing nothing."
"Yeah, yeah. Let go," I said. I'd heard it all before.

I stewed. Then I had a glimmer of a thought. I turned to Jesus and said optimistically, "I've done it with my ex-husband. Let go. No more expectations. Finito."
He sat up straight, "Good! And how's that going for you?"
I brightened, "Sad but good. And muuuuch better. I'm actually happier."
"Well then, Merry Christmas to you," Jesus said in his kind-Jesus voice, "Now, try it with the rest of the world."
"O.K., I know, I'm trying," I said, because I am.
"I know you're trying. Cut yourself a little slack, too. The whole forgiveness shtick? It's for you to do to yourself, too."
"Yeah, OK. Got it."

I gathered my stuff, reached for the door handle and said, "I'd love to stay here and shoot the breeze with you, Jesus, your being so wise and all, but I gotta-- what is so damn funny?"
He had started to crack up again.
"The next time you want to flip some one the bird..." Jesus trailed off. He was laughing too hard to continue. I cracked a smile. I tried to be tough, but I couldn't help myself.

I was wearing mittens.



Merry Christmas to everyone. And I mean everyone.