Monday, June 16, 2008, 7:53 PM
What do you write when you feel like the top of your head is going to explode from the force of the thoughts inside your head?
On the way to work, I spare a thought of glee that I took the time to shave my legs and make my hair look good. And I wish I had a pair of white wedges to go with the white dress I'm wearing, and non-funky feet to carry it off. When I glance down at my feet, I see I'm still wearing the ugly brown sandals.
White wedges is a stupid thing to waste a wish on, though.
It's lightly breezy. Sunny. Even at 8:20 in the morning. Los Angeles is always beautiful. There are three people walking ahead of me. I can tell the hospital/clinic workers from the blue collar folks because the hospital people wear loose-fitting green garb or a thigh-length printed shirt over loose green pants--and they wear comfy black or white shoes. Their stride is easy-going. I can tell they feel comfortable.
The other people I see (two, in fact) are white collar workers. The guy is wearing a crisp white button-up shirt tucked into black slacks that show off a tight butt. He walks without swinging his arms almost at all, and I try to imitate the walk and can't. I spend a moment or two wishing I was a guy because I'd only need one pair of black shoes, one pair of brown. One pair of black pants, one of brown.
The girl I see is wearing heels. Not stilettos, but she's walking like they are. Her steps are gal-lomp-like, like she's stepping over a pile of shit. Any girl wearing heels that high walks gal-lompily--it's not a smooth, carefree walk. Not at all like a runway model's two-minute trek down a strip (I'm almost positive the models ONLY wear those shoes during the dangerous runway strut).
But this is West Hollywood and if you're under the age of 28, appearance is EVERYthing. You suffer the pain of heels, of a too-tight skirt, or an itchy scalp from hair tracks, extensions, pieces or wigs.
The trick to surviving it all is a sense of humor. (And enjoying the man eye candy. There are quite a lot of them...) Liking who you are at that moment--because let's face it--what and who you feel yourself to be is chameleon-like. At least it's true for me. Sometimes I'm okay with the long-haired blond in the cat suit, sometimes I'm not. I see her and realize I used to be just like her.
Only not in stilettos.