Friday, February 7, 2014
When I Don't Love Los Angeles
I was just drinking some coffee (it was bitter) and eating an English muffin with egg white and turkey bacon (it was kind of gross, really), waiting for my morning movie to start (you'll get the three-line review tomorrow) when the woman pictured above walked in. She was Swedish, and she wasn't young. I'm not sure whether she was a Sikh practicing Kundalini yoga, getting ready to jazzercise or was just out for a cup of coffee on a Friday morning in Los Angeles, but this is the sort of stuff that makes me not enjoy the life here. I simultaneously feel superior and intensely inferior. I think Why? when I look at her, head to toe, and then I think God. I wish I were a thin, tall blonde Swedish woman with a smile on my face. I feel old this afternoon, bitter like my coffee and missing New York City where my dark hair, black tee-shirt and careworn visage might be appreciated. Better yet, I bet I'd be a goddess in Cosenza, my ancestral home in southern Italy.
Reader, what's happening in your parts (not pants)?