Low point

The following was taken from my written journal (the one I've practically abandoned since the start of this blog) almost exactly three years ago. I remember sitting on my couch, that Sunday morning, knowing that I needed to make a change in my life, but having absolutely no idea what that change was. Reading it now makes me laugh out loud, if only because I know I have come so far. But, back then, I didn't even know in which direction to head.

Sunday, November 16, 2003

Aah, the joys of another Sunday morning spent alone. Waking up with a hangover, regretting my food intake at last night's party. Looking in the mirror and being absolutely horrified at what I saw. Bags that have unpacked themselves for a permanent vacation under my eyes, deep creases by my mouth, sagging skin that I know from years in the beauty business is a result of the loss of collagen, probably exacerbated by nine years spent in a tanning booth. When did it become necessary to put on a full face of makeup just to walk half a block for coffee? I'm not talking about simply lip gloss and some concealer - I mean, foundation, blush, bronzer, mascara! All to walk to Starbucks to stand in line behind some jappy girl with her husband's money clip, a single band of diamonds on her left ring finger, counting and re-counting her dollar bills which she can't keep straight because she is simultaneously talking to her mother on the cell phone about "how unreasonable Daddy can be." All I can do is stare enviously at her Ugg boots - which incorrectly, or at least, unwittingly - have bunched her pant leg on one side. Everyone knows that the correct way to wear Uggs is either with a short skirt or over skinny pant legs - not over flared pant legs that will bunch up. Every girl in NYC has a pair, and I find myself wanting a pair, even though I do not have any skinny-legged pants and despite the fact that they are soooo ugly! They are the Birkenstock of boots! But back in HS I wanted Birkenstocks to be cool, but couldn't afford them. Thank God! Now, I can totally afford Uggs, but for some reason would consider myself a fashion victim - a wannabe - if I succomb to my own internal pressure. Maybe b/c I fear they'll be so out by next season that I'll have dated myself. Then again, I thought the Louis Vuitton Murakami hand bags would have been dated by now, but clearly I was way off on that. I should just spend the damn money and buy the boots, but I'm not quite ready to do that yet.

Anyway, I'm 27. How did that happen? My four best girlfriends have remained the same since I was like 20 - and going back to HS, as far back as 16, or even younger. For some reason, I still feel 22. So why don't I look it? : (

To put a positive spin on things, maybe this year I should throw myself a big bash with the theme, "Two whole years before I'm 30". Give myself a two year license to continue to act the way I do with no excuses. I'll settle down when I am 30.

God, if I look the way I do now, I can only imagine what I'll look like on the first Sunday morning of my 30th year. [Quite good, thank you very much! - Ed.] Maybe I should take the $150 I would have spent on the Ugg boots and put it toward a plastic surgery fund, to which I'll present myself as a 30th birthday present.

I've come so far (backwards, downwards?) since the days I used to be utterly confident about my looks, secure in the knowledge that I had a better body than most other girls my age. My body is still fine, but I'll never be 21 again. No matter what the age, though, I can't seem to escape the vanity that plagues my mind with these concerns, letting a good Sunday morning go to waste because I am feeling sorry for myself because I am single. Worrying that, by sitting on the couch writing this, I am contributing to the spread of the width of my butt. Soldiers are dying by the dozens every day in Iraq, and I worry about the size of my belly or the depth of my smile lines.

I'm just wondering what's wrong with me that I never seem to have a boyfriend. I mean, I have dates. I probably could have a lot more dates, but dating is depressing because I never like anyone enough and end up in these "pity" situations that I then have to wrangle out of. And then, every once in a while, I get my heart broken. Dating - lots of fun.

I am a laugh-a-minute this morning. I'm not even really depressed - just cynical. I'm also so jaded by everything, after living in NYC for five years, that it's more natural to look at the negative. Or, maybe I just need more coffee. I can head back to Starbucks in the hopes that Jappy Girl is gone and in her place will be a cute boy from the gym who is alone and decides to talk to me. I don't even care if he tells me how he always sees me and worships me - just a hello will do, and a new gym friendship to be formed so I can stalk him thereafter.

Love,
Lori

What's so funny, is that, really, not that much has changed. My Sunday mornings are pretty much spent alone and my smile lines are still there. I don't have a diamond wedding band or a money clip or skinny jeans - but for some reason, now, I am pretty sure none of those things would make my life any better. (Uggs, on the other hand, HAVE made my life better. I'm wearing them right now. With my pajamas. You have no idea how much better life is when your feet are toasty.)

But other than that, and the fact that I hardly ever put more than lip gloss on when heading to Starbucks on the weekend, something significant HAS changed. I am happier, for some reason, more content with the stupid smile lines (hello, Restalyne!) and knowing that Jappy girls with Longuysland accents don't bother me. I have mellowed out, and whether it's LA, or growing up, or burning myself out on skepticism, I'm just happier. And so thankful for it.