COMMITMENTS : The End of the Line : When she first set eyes on those massive hunks, she knew she had to have them in her life. But now, the thrill is gone. She’s giving the bus the boot and returning to the driver’s seat.

In the end, I thought I’d lose my nerve and wail, “Ooooooh, nooooo. Let’s make another go at it.”

After all, we had been on the verge of breaking up several times before. But I always managed to chicken out, convincing myself that it wasn’t that bad. You just need to give it time, I’d say. It will get better.

But this time was different. Reconciliation wasn’t going to happen because one of us didn’t want it to happen. I wanted out.

Document before me, pen in hand, the dotted line was simply waiting for my signature.

I scribbled my name with ease.

There, it was official. After more than three years, I was no longer an MTA bus passenger.

*

Rewind to 1991. . . .

New to Los Angeles, I noticed these massive hunks moving up and down Venice Boulevard with eye-catching frequency.

“Hubba-hubba! Who are those buses?” I asked a neighbor.

“Oh, those are the buses,” she said sleepily.

“But I heard that L.A. had no buses! That all the good buses were in New York.”

“There are some,” she said. “You just have to know where to look.”

So my search began.

And what a find! On my stretch of Venice Boulevard alone, there was a healthy choice of three--count ‘em, three --buses that got you Downtown and back.

I didn’t want to commit to one just yet, so I courted all three for brief periods.

The local bus, the No. 33, had one quality a commuter looks for in a bus: It ran 24 hours a day. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the bus you want to be on at 10 at night while wearing a pink pastel suit.

“Hey, look,” a drunk passenger slurred to me when he suddenly woke up about 50 minutes into the ride, “Jackie (expletive) Kennedy.”

While the Mirth Factor was higher on the 33, the 333 Limited offered a better clientele--only because, as the name implied, it was limited: in hours of operation and in the number of stops it made. Its riffraff was just riff.

Bachelor No. 3--the 436 freeway bus--was impressive indeed. Cleaner. Safer. Quieter. Although more expensive to ride than the other two and with service and stops more limited than the Limited, it was a bus your mother would love.

We were joined in commuted bliss when I signed a document at work indicating that I was officially exchanging my car parking pass for a subsidized monthly bus pass. (To have both is forbidden. Sort of like bus bigamy.)

*

Ours was a union of pure bliss. At least at first.

No matter what time I left work, the bus was always there to greet me. It massaged my aching bones every time it hit a bump on the roadway. It warmed me in the winter and cooled me in the summer.

It didn’t talk back.

On weekends, I flashed my bus pass and zipped over to the mall, the gym, my favorite French bakery.

Then one day as we were zipping past the bus shelter at Venice Boulevard and McLaughlin, it occurred to me that I couldn’t stand it anymore. It was nothing the bus shelter did. I just hated its guts.

It only got worse.

The once-sweet smell of the cologne of a regular rider who often sat in front of me suddenly reminded me of something Swamp Thing stepped in.

The bright, gentle laughter of a county worker now sounded like a hyena on speed.

I wanted to find the man who called me Jackie Kennedy.

Once I realized that I could name all the bus stops along Venice Boulevard, I knew that I had to get out of this relationship.

I wanted to go back to driving my car.

I wanted to blast the tape player with Aretha singing “Freeway of Love.”

I wanted to eat lemon muffins and drink vats of coffee from the comfort of my front seat.

I wanted to call dinner hosts on my cellular phone and say, “The 405’s backed up. I’ll be a little late.”

I was tired of bus life.

So after much, much thought, I signed on the dotted line and exchanged my bus pass for a parking pass.

*

While I take full responsibility for the dissolution of this relationship, I should add that the final irreconcilable difference came this summer when the MTA decided to raise fares and discontinue bus passes Sept. 1 for everyone except students and the elderly. (While the MTA action is on hold pending the outcome of a federal court battle--which gets under way today--don’t get any ideas. I’m outta here. It’s for the best, I tell myself.)

Friends’ reactions have been mixed.

Non-car-poolers sneer: “We knew you’d be back among your selfish, air-polluting kind, trying to lie your way out of a ticket for driving solo in the diamond lane.”

My commuting buddies say they are ashamed to know me. How could I give up any relationship after just three years?

They say I’ll be back.

After a few months of looking at other cars sitting in traffic during rush hour on the Santa Monica Freeway and watching my blood pressure rise to new heights, they say I’ll be running to catch the bus once more.

Maybe. But for now, I’m going to give the single life a try.