Alas even this girl must deal with the harsh realities that come with growing old. Growing old in LA. When my friends looked to diet and exercise years ago I mocked their frailty. I would handle growing old with superhuman strength. After all, I was invincible. I'd survived this long hadn't I - on a diet of donuts for dinner, no less.
At 27 when my peers bought under eye cremes and night gels promising to decrease the signs of fine lines and aging, I said I see your cremes and gels and I raise you one pair of good genes.
Thus blame it on an uncharacteristic rainy day in Southern California - the first of the season. Shit, I was in Hollywood, blame it on the town. It had left me misguided, dizzy feeling - but nonetheless I found myself in a store specializing in skincare, pressured by a good sales pitch and taunted by a freakishly good looking model on the billboard outside, and out sixty dollars. I walked to the car and thought about what I'd done. I had succumbed to probably what was inevitable about the landmark twenty-eighth birthday, the purchase of anti-aging scrubs and washes. Abrasive, though aromatic, my sixty dollar purchase doesn't give me the skin of a twenty year old, but perhaps with more use.
My cats think I'm crazy, but it's only because they love me unconditionally. Oh cats, if only the cruel world outside could know such love.
