the eye of the beholder

Haven’t posted much this week, not for lack of things to post about—though now that it’s late and I’m allowed to write something other than my chapter, I’m drawing a blank . . .

I guess right about now, my friend and coworker, Orlando, is enjoying his final night as a single guy—he gets married tomorrow. I’m happy for him, though there is a small part of me that will be glad to have the wedding talk slow down a bit in the office. Since I’m not even dating anyone these days, hearing about someone else’s impending nuptials wasn’t always easy. It’s not that I begrudge him or anyone else their happiness, it’s just that I’m not in that place, and part of me is a wee bit envious.

I mean, I’m not getting any younger.

Part of it may be Los Angeles. When it comes to dating, I have very mixed feeling about this place. On the one hand, there are a good number of single people in their thirties, and that’s good. But at the same time, I think that it’s really hard to be a single woman here. Most women work out religiously and take really good care of themselves, and it doesn’t hurt that many of them can afford to have a little something done to take care of those especially stubborn problem spots.

Plus, I’m convinced that to be both attractive and intelligent is pretty much the kiss of death. Yes beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all of that, but at least in los angeles, beauty and brains (assuming I possess some share of either, which might be a stretch in both cases given my current status), is a fatal combination. I mean, most guys talk a good game—they claim to want someone who can hold up her end of a conversation . . . but when it comes to putting their money where their mouths are . . . well, let’s just say I’m still waiting for someone to prove me wrong on this one. And just so you know, I’m not Angelina Jolie’s twin sister, but I’m pretty sure I’m not hideous either. But then again, and I don’t think this is just me, it’s hard to talk for a lot of women to talk about their appearance. Either they come off as delusional or they come off as conceited. I don’t think I’m either of those things. I’m just your regular girl-next-door type, maybe a little better maybe a little worse depending on your own aesthetic preferences . . .

I think Zelda Fitzgerald hit the nail of the head when she wished for her daughter to be “a beautiful little fool.” Not that I would wish that on myself or my daughter, should I ever have one, but the whole brains deal—not always the blessing you’d think. Not only are you thinking about things constantly, but the awareness of it all can be a killer. At least if I were an airhead, I’d be, well, an airhead. I can’t help but think that that’s be kinda nice every once in a while. . . at least if you live in La-La Land . . .

I’m not really sure where all this is going except that it’s something that has been on my mind this week, so if for no other reason than to get it out of my own head, it goes up on the blog.

Anyway, I'm going to stop the slippery slide towards self-pity that I see coming on and just wish my friend and his bride every happiness (not that either of them will ever know--but everyone knows that secret wishes are stronger anyway!)