The Injustice of Life (and Cable Television)
I said it was going to happen. I thought we had already hit rock bottom and could go no deeper. But we have. My cherished 11:00 pm slot of "The Golden Girls" is now no more. Since high school, all through college, and for practically all of law school, I have gone to bed with the antics of the Girls softly playing in the background. Now, in its place, is some second-rate TV movie about a yahoo cracker girl getting knocked up by a drunken deadbeat and her battle to leave his abusive grips and find eventual self-fulfillment. I guess there is some kind of story there, but geez(us), not at 11:00 pm at night. Plus, "The Golden Girls" is funnier.
There is nothing left for me here.
Words of Wisdom
"I'm not vain, I'm insecure."
- Mariah Carey
The Injustice of Life (and Jury Trials)
First you took away Carrie Bradshaw, and now you're taking Martha Stewart from me. Is there nothing left to inspire me? What else will you take away? Where will we draw the line?
If this pattern persists, I implore society to brace themselves for the pending exit of Forensic Files and the Golden Girls. If these go off the air, I will officially check myself in somewhere.
At least, spring is in the air.
Aging
The legal assistant at our office is 48 years old, a tall, delicate, and yet very vibrant woman. After my lunch break today, she came up to me at my desk, very giddy, and showed me the results of her most recent health exam. All of her numbers either bested or were within the averages prescribed for women in age brackets even younger than hers. Most impressive of all, her level of HDL (good) cholesterol was very high.
She was incredibly excited. "I'm going to celebrate by eating a cheese quesadilla with guacamole!" The mirth in her voice was almost devilish, as she thought of the usually decadent consequences of such a meal.
I was a bit stupefied, though I kept it to myself. The lunch I had just eaten consisted of 6-piece Chicken McNuggets, a Filet-o-Fish, and some peanut butter frozen yogurt with Oreo crumbles. I decided that I wouldn't disclose this. But with that in mind, I wholeheartedly complimented her on her excellent health. More casual conversation revealed that she got up early every morning to use the treadmill and walked miles over the weekends. She was also quite an aerobics buff in the 80's. We talked about leg warmers and working out to "What I Like About You." I thought about how I routinely dragged myself out of bed every morning and ate some kind of pork product before heading out the door.
I don't know if I feel guilty right now, or ashamed, or scared of the inevitable toll of the aging process. Because of US Weekly's last magazine cover, I have become acutely aware of the Botox phenomenon and have started fixating on who needs it and who doesn't in my daily interactions with people. I also keep my face absolutely still as much as I can so that I do not create any of those premature, unnecessary lines. I want to avoid plastic surgery as much as I can, I want to look youthful for as long as I can, and I want to avoid looking like Joan Rivers/The Grinch as much as I can. Not much of this should be an issue with me since I've got very sturdy skin and my mom looks pretty line-free. But what trumps here -- common sense, or being a product of my society? 9 times out of 10 the latter usually prevails.
I do hope someday I can be as giddy as my co-worker was today. And be able to coo to a girl half her age that my health is superior. And to feel that the guiltiest pleasure of all is having a cheese quesadilla with guacamole.
In an unrelated story, yesterday I left my cell phone at home, and then when I got home at 8:30 pm that night, there were 35 missed calls and messages from friends and family looking for me, and my parents had driven down to San Diego from Los Angeles to check that I was OK. Because I had not returned their call earlier in the day, they started the manhunt. This is a true, and disturbing, story.
Time
Today, I feel like the person I was in 2001. This is a good thing, because that was one of the best years of my short life and I very much liked the person I was back then. It's something about the scent of my shampoo... and the balmy weather... a bit of jet lag... and the fact that today is the birthday of an old boyfriend who I am incredibly fond of -- so much so, that I guess the power of remembering him takes over my whole corporeal consciousness of time.
I was in Nashville last week. It was my first trip to the South and I enjoyed myself and my environs immensely. I went to my very first plantation, the Belle Meade, just 7 miles outside of downtown Nashville. The proprietor, John Harding, was not a planter but a breeder of horses. His stables were magnificent, but it was disheartening to realize later that one horse's stall was larger and grander than the quarters for 10 slaves. There was a colorful, rich, and detailed history of the slaves' lives at the Belle Meade. The friends I was with commented on how macabre it was that the centerpiece of plantation was a renowned restaurant serving hearty fare of chicken and dumplings and country fried chicken, yards away from signs that described how slaves often dined on chitterlings and other pork entrails. And the struggle between the haves and the have-nots rages on.
I was so hellbent on eating fried chicken there that I got into a tiff with my Moot Court coach while standing in the middle of downtown at lunch hour. In everybody's defense, we were all half-starved and cranky. In my defense, my coach was sort of a dick.
I had sausage and grits for breakfast every morning, and I ate White Castle burgers and Mrs. Winner's fried chicken late every night. Towards the end of the trip I was starting to speak in a drawl, and prolonged exposure to country music made me wonder when I'd get my truck back. Overall, Nashville was a pleasant, unexpected treat.
I have pictures. You'll see.
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