Sticking out (an L.A. story)
When traveling, it is always a good idea to blend in with the people of the area. You don’t feel like an outsider and you don’t turn into a mark for potential kidnapping attempts by bumbling and inept fools wanting to make a fast buck off you because they think you lay around a large bed, writhing in money, like Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal.
When in Rome…
Only, I’m not in Rome. I’m in L.A.
And, L.A. is not Rome.
When speaking of my physical attributes, I'm sticking out and look out of place. This world is filled with Paul Walkers, and I resemble Paul Giamatti by comparison.
Having a healthy body image, I never thought there was anything wrong with my physical presence. Back home, I look normal, but normal is a relative term and doesn’t exist here.
Within a few hours in L.A., I’m realizing that…
- I am fat and out of shape and should join a gym stat
- I am pale and require a lot of sun/sunless tanning product/a tanning bed
- I have bad skin that need a series of creams/surgical procedures to eliminate the ravages of time
- I have lousy hair and the colour needs to be fixed since black isn’t the new black
- I am hairy and should get shaved/waxed/tweezed/lasered
And, that’s only a small smattering.
God forbid if I went on to talk about the rest of my body.
But, what’s odd is most people are accepting of this high maintenance. They enjoy going to the gym and working out. They like the sun, then removing the traces of sun damage with trips to the dermatologist. They want to spend money on their hair – getting it done and removed.
Fuck. It already takes me too long to look average. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in front of the mirror trying to achieve a tiny semblance of perfection, while never quite reaching it.
It’s like climbing Mount Everest using only your teeth to scale the rocks.
Anyway, it wouldn’t matter what would happen to my choppers since they’re small, crooked and yellow.
**
Note: These circa 2006 writings are personal observations of a wide-eyed Canadian, and are not reflective of the residents of L.A.
When in Rome…
Only, I’m not in Rome. I’m in L.A.
And, L.A. is not Rome.
When speaking of my physical attributes, I'm sticking out and look out of place. This world is filled with Paul Walkers, and I resemble Paul Giamatti by comparison.
Having a healthy body image, I never thought there was anything wrong with my physical presence. Back home, I look normal, but normal is a relative term and doesn’t exist here.
Within a few hours in L.A., I’m realizing that…
- I am fat and out of shape and should join a gym stat
- I am pale and require a lot of sun/sunless tanning product/a tanning bed
- I have bad skin that need a series of creams/surgical procedures to eliminate the ravages of time
- I have lousy hair and the colour needs to be fixed since black isn’t the new black
- I am hairy and should get shaved/waxed/tweezed/lasered
And, that’s only a small smattering.
God forbid if I went on to talk about the rest of my body.
But, what’s odd is most people are accepting of this high maintenance. They enjoy going to the gym and working out. They like the sun, then removing the traces of sun damage with trips to the dermatologist. They want to spend money on their hair – getting it done and removed.
Fuck. It already takes me too long to look average. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in front of the mirror trying to achieve a tiny semblance of perfection, while never quite reaching it.
It’s like climbing Mount Everest using only your teeth to scale the rocks.
Anyway, it wouldn’t matter what would happen to my choppers since they’re small, crooked and yellow.
**
Note: These circa 2006 writings are personal observations of a wide-eyed Canadian, and are not reflective of the residents of L.A.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
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