It’s almost 10 and a little drizzly here in Los Angeles. My coffee is hot and my son sits shivering in front of the new Playstation we gave them for Chanukkah. My daughter and my husband sleep late and in a few moments I’ll wake them and ask them to get out of bed. I wont’ necessarily have something for them to do, but they should be upright with eyes open.
They city is absurdly quiet and I remember just how much I hated living in rural Colorado all those years ago.
Friends are having meltdowns and another jumps on the injectible bandwagon (restalyne or juviderm, who knows?) to fill in imaginary lines that only a camera can see. We giggle that it’s funny, and how we are products of our environment, but no one whispers, and in quiet moments we all know that it’s depression.
It’s depression in a plastic surgeon’s office, and women in this town wear their sadness in the form of unmoving eyebrows, creaseless smiles, frozen top lips and absurdly trim midsections. Our deepest sadness can be made pretty for $1,250 and an oral block.
I resist the fix because my daughter is watching. Intently.
Still others have mixed feelings about the day and update their facebook status to reflect that. They get a few pings, private messages sending them hugs and love. I hope and pray, they get what they need. It’s a lot of pressure to be joyful today, as a bit of a curmudgeon, I can understand not always feeling the joy.
I’ll cook a little and play games with the family. Then we’ll schlep all over the Hollywood Hills to enjoy the hipsters and the booze and the company. Later we’ll hang with our children’s friends and then I’ll wipe off my lipstick while surrounded by women who know what you’re thinking before you say it. And they support you, no matter what.
I’ll try to enjoy the silence of the day. Frankly, a city this quiet is a little disquieting and doesn’t work all that well for me.
Don’t let the silence give you a headache.