Pleasure Notes

At First Blush

All that glitters may not be gold, but it sure catches my attention, and that gets me into trouble. Not the kind that has me trying to accessorize a pantsuit in Sing-Sing. The emotional kind. The kind of trouble that translates into envy, resentment and debt.

I have a pretty amazing life – phenomenal friends, supportive family, engaging employment, comfortable home, adequate health. A sane person could be completely content with that. Hell, I should be completely content with that. However, here’s where my crazy head comes into play. Well, my crazy head and In Style.

You see, the depth and beauty of my life can’t be summed up in a glossy three-sentence bio. It requires inspection to fully appreciate. It isn’t flashy. It doesn’t inspire people to gasp in awe. It doesn’t support many paparazzi moments. i don’t frequent a different restaurant’s soft-opening every night. I can’t tell the brand of a pair of jeans based on its pocket stitching. The glamour quotient is decidedly low.

But I live in L.A., the epicenter of all things glittery and glamourous. This city supplies the tabloids and guilty-pleasure magazines with endless fodder. That fodder is like quicksand. It sucks you in. Or it sucks me in, at least. It is so easy for me to get distracted into thinking that I’m missing out on… something. There are so many restaurants, clubs, bars, openings, events, festivals, and moments that I don’t get to, don’t hear about, or can’t afford. At first blush, those missed opportunities seem so significant.

An emailed Urban Daddy update about the newest Hollywood Hot Spot has me lamenting my life instead of celebrating it. Catching sight of a friend’s new Jimmy Choo peep-toes has me resenting the width of my feet and the size of my bank account. Idling next to a fabulously phallic roadster has me plucking at my fabric-covered car seats. It is pure insanity.

The best medicine to counteract the crazy – aside from meditation, gratitude and a slap upside the head – is an occasional taste of what I erroneously think I want. Dining at a super-trendy, high-end restaurant. Schmoozing at a Joel Madden-DJ’d shindig. Sipping a pepper-infused cocktail in a crowd of men and women who don’t seem to understand the purpose of clothing. It always gives me a horrible case of indigestion.

It makes my life, as it is, look exceedingly rosy.