The Mannequins Here are Way Skinnier

Finally, the entry everyone has been dreading since I moved to LA:

I feel so ugly today.

I went to bed at 9:30PM last night so I could wake up extra early, maybe throw in a workout if we’re lucky, but most definitely have enough time to condition, shave, iron, trace and color, tease and spray. And brew my own coffee, compile the lunch sandwich, gulp a bowl of cocoa pebbles. You know — feel good for less. Essentially “fit in”, minus the overpriced espresso, Pellagrino, lobster salad, and workout at the country club.

Instead, I jolted awake thirty minutes before I had to be in my seat at the office. Which meant I [didn't] have me enough time to poorly condition, compile, and gulp [but I did it anyway and was late].

I work right next to Century City’s Westfield mall, which is also next door to the MGM tower, which on the 16th floor is Pacific Western Bank where our company banks. I LOVE walking into the MGM tower. You have to show ID in order to inch nearby the elevator. Once you’re approved, you receive a card that you scan in the elevator which takes you only to the floor you’re supposed to go to. What I love about it, though, besides the fact that it makes me feel so VIP, is that I get to see actors, directors, and producers just float around on the beautiful MGM first floor prepping for auditions, photoshoots and meetings.

What I hate about it is needing to walk through the mall past Louis Vuitton and Kate Spade and the like and see the reflection of myself and realize, have mercy. Is that a PERSON staring back?! Curves bending at the wrong direction, pants poorly ironed, and a face that melts into itself.

These were the thoughts I carried as I made my way around the mall today that I shared with the crazy paparazzi photographer chasing this Jessica Simpson look-a-like around (maybe it was her?) and throngs of 50 year old women who look younger and more alive than I do at 22.

And I’m not exaggerating about the whole 50 year old women thing, by the way. I haven’t blogged a single experience about what it’s like to be another Beverly Hills nanny among millions (that’s my life– stalking media coverage for investor clients by day, and breaking up sister fights and reading bedtime stories by night, and managing to be a full-time girlfriend in between) but let’s just say, I’ve learned a lot about the 50 year old women around town through nannying. First, they’re all Jewish (and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that except I’ve probably just never known a Jewish person before they suddenly became my life). Second, most have monthly laser hair removal appointments and have completed many school projects for their kids’ private school education.

The girls I nanny have an intense social life (which nicely contrasts mine) and I often go with them to their playdates . Which means I get to drive into gated estates, make sure kids don’t kill themselves for a few hours, then go home and google their parents. Most recently? The Office’s producer/screenwriter. My claim to fame is that I peed in his bathroom, and didn’t even know it! And yes I couldn’t help myself and proceeded to tell his daughter that if ever he needed a plain Chinese lady for an episode, to holler. To which his daughter replied with, “Uh, you’re not Chinese, silly! You’re American!” To which I replied with, “I’m Chinese-American!” To which she replied with, “Uhhh…whatever, just sing another song” because besides wiping butts and washing dishes and warming milk, butchering Taylor Swift tunes is clearly my only other known talent.

HUGE tangent.

Back to my rant on being ugly, I’m planning on spending the rest of my evening with my boyfriend who has convinced himself of my undying beauty, and detoxing at bible study tonight.

You know, being here is still a load of fun suprises, but it does take a thick skin. This challenge, I accept. I don’t deny its temptations, but I also refuse to fear them.