Almost Laurel Canyon
Greetings from almost West Hollywood. Bonjour from the foothills of the rich and famous. Hello from what a good friend coined as, “almost Laurel Canyon”. I can see a CVS Drugstore and Wokcano Asian Restaurant & Bar from my bedroom window, which is also my living room window, which is also my writing room window, because I live in an over-priced one-room box in close proximity to the Chateau Marmont.
The sun is setting on another perfectly not-too-warm Los Angeles day. The air feels and smells pink. The street lights haven’t come on yet but the traffic has died down on the famed Sunset Blvd., which I can also see from my tiny box. Folks are settling into the night.
It’s Friday evening. I’d cancelled my plans due to a nagging tickle in my throat because I didn’t want to end up full-blown sick for the rest of the weekend, but my anxiety is starting to kick in now — that sinking feeling that I’m missing out on something, someone, somewhere and I’m growing regretful of my “mature” decision.
I talk about my tiny box ad nauseam. I’m addicted to ranting about how far I have fallen, how poor I’ve become and I complain, constantly, but the truth is — I love it here. I chose this place. When my ex broke up with me and I started looking for a new place to live this was the second and last place I saw.
The first place I saw was a larger bottom floor studio in almost Silverlake which was conveniently located within two miles of most of the people I know here. I liked it, but I made the mistake of taking my mother with me to see it and she was simply horrified because she too is fascinated by my fall and also completely out of touch with what one can get for $1,500 in Los Angeles in 2019. The last time I needed to look for a new place, I could comfortably afford to live just about anywhere on a modest income and the biggest concession one needed to make then was maybe foregoing a parking spot or a walk-in kitchen. A lot has changed since 2013.
She opened the blinds to reveal a shady alley outside the non-barred windows and then asked me if I really thought I could handle the already moldy shower and the rehab across the street and duh, yes I could, it’s not that big of a deal because, “Location, mom! Location!” She grew up in Echo Park and has distorted eyes and a mother’s love and together we walked out of there without hope or a rental application.
I brought my ex with me to see this place, which was basically the same as going alone because his opinions didn’t extend past that of a man picking out a tie in the morning, “Does it fit? Does it work? Fine.” When I walked in and saw these windows and took a look at this view, I knew it didn’t matter if I couldn’t fit a damn thing in here besides a bed and a desk, which ended up being the case, because this is where I needed to be. This is where I was going to write.
From one window I can see out onto Sunset and from the other I can peer into the backyards of the rich and famous and sometimes, like having lunch at a high-end department store, you can trick yourself into feeling fancy by surrounding yourself with beauty and it feels almost as good. Almost Laurel Canyon, almost West Hollywood, almost pretty as I sit here writing next to my store-bought dying night-blooming jasmine plant smelling and feeling and seeing what I need to see while wearing a cut-off t-shirt and sweat shorts from Old Navy; no makeup and unshaven legs. It’s almost enough.
I cried today, stupidly. I was offered a job but the salary was terrible and as I wept in my car during my 1.5 hour commute home, I felt sorry for myself. When will I be more than entry level? When will all my experience and p-p-personality finally pay me something that might make life almost a little more bearable? The counter offer to my bare-minimum was also devastating and I guess I have the weekend to decide if I’m going to take it or continue driving three hours a day to an even worse job. It’s all very trivial when you think about it. I have a roof over my head and almost a million dollar view, save for these power lines which make it impossible to Instagram it and thus feel… validated.
I ask myself — girl — what is it that you want? A new dress? A little Botox? A savings account? A baby? I don’t even know. I haven’t let myself dream in a long time. I find it hard to appreciate and dream at the same time and it feels so ugly to admit trying to appreciate has taken up a lot of my mental energy lately.
My ex made a lot and for the one whole year we lived together I didn’t need to think about money — even though I did — constantly. I realize now I should have used his credit card to build a stellar wardrobe or get weekly beauty treatments but I was only concerned with showing him that, “Baby, money doesn’t matter! Look at how much I saved on groceries this week! We don’t have to go out — I cooked!” I cooked again, and I cooked again, and, “Wow, all we do is eat! Um, and I’m getting fat! I baked cookies.” I don’t even eat cookies but suddenly there we were, staying in every weekend, eating dozens of cookies before we retired to our separate bedrooms without having sex, “Sweet dreams, babe!” It was a living hell.
The fact that I cared that he made a lot of money is very telling about my now 33 year old self. I feel sick about it. In my last relationship, I was engaged to a man who didn’t have a real job. His only responsibility during the week was to care for our dog. He was a writer who lived three hours away and got side work on farms when he could and I was fine with it. We’d spend the week here in Los Angeles and then the weekends in the high desert, wowing at the deer grazing outside our window. I loved my weekends in the middle of nowhere riding four-wheelers, feeding horses and wearing his over-sized flannel shirts. Was I happier then? Much! Was he right for me? Unfortunately no. Was my last ex with money and no opinions or lingering attraction for me the one? Even more unfortunately, no. I’ve a history of real top-notch decision making.
That ex-fiancé of mine is now married with a baby and our dog and my recent ex is currently on vacation, which I know because I texted him earlier for advice on whether or not to take this job because I continue to make great decisions. I had chips and salsa for dinner and ex 1 is playing with his baby and ex 2 is on a quick weekend getaway and here I am fighting off a cold in my box so hey, you know what would feel really great? Texting a man who doesn’t want me anymore to seek out his opinion on what I should do with my life.
Despite my enjoyment in reflecting on the contrary, things aren’t all bad. In fact, things are pretty okay. I’ve taken a lover. He’s really handsome and sweet and woke enough to not let his good looks and charisma get in the way of being a good person. Tomorrow we’ll celebrate two months of consensual sexual encounters that have thus far consisted of many dates and laughs and rolls around my bed in the early-morning hours. These things, by their nature, are very temporary, and I appreciate the maturity and open, honest communication that has facilitated this continuing on for so long.
I know what you’re thinking — he sounds great! Date him! Ha, I wish. I’m not dating anyone while in this almost place. I have little more to offer than 16 hours of a pretty face, sex and witty banter before my almost Laurel Canyon castle turns back into a box and my beauty limit expires and I fall back into a cutoff t-shirt and Old Navy sweat short wearing loser with visible sun damage. I can’t keep up appearances for long — not yet. Plus, I haven’t determined if this beautiful man is, in fact, my type and more notably, I’ve almost one hundred percent determined that I’m not his. We’d tried dating years ago and it fizzled before it had a chance to spark. Now we’re simply friends who enjoy nightlife and making each other cum. I’m beyond satisfied and thankful because honestly, that’s enough right now.
My whole adult life has been male-centered. I’ve let them take up so much of my brain space and heart space that today, at 33, I struggle to differentiate what’s me and what’s just remnants of them, their interests, and the things they seemed to like about me. As I sit here smelling this jasmine, writing nonsense with windows wide open, exposed to the world, I’m me. I have that. I’m not going to squander it — not this time. Instead of being a whole, inauthentic person I am partially, completely me. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I think about myself more than anyone else.
I am not lonely. I have lovely friends who I get to see often. I know what’s going on in their lives and they know what’s going on in mine and that gives me so much more than a Friday night sitting on a couch eating food and watching movies with someone who acts like they’re stuck with me ever did. I’m already stuck with me — I don’t need to waste any space on anyone I’m not enough for, and I regret having had to blow up my life to realize this.
It’s dark now. The street lights have turned on and people are parking on the hill and walking down to the bars and comedy club. The draft coming in through the open windows has cooled and the ice clinks in my glass full of White Sands Hard Seltzer. My fresh nail polish has mostly dried and my anxiety is starting to ease. It’s just me and the man who sleeps on the sidewalk outside my apartment. We are both doing our best to remain unfazed by this Friday night in almost Laurel Canyon. Cheers.
Almost Laurel Canyon
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