I’m a depressive. Not in the “I’m going to stay in bed for 6 straight weeks in the dark” kind of way. More of the Los Angeles, “I used to be hot, now I’m middle age and it sucks” kind of way. It doesn’t help that I live in the heart of Hollywood, where beauty is king. It’s not that I have low self-esteem. I am just hung up on the “old” young Monica. I know one is not supposed to look back because then you cannot look forward. But, according to my personal life coach (my Friday night happy-hour bartender), “…sometimes you’ve got to look back to figure out where you’ve been so that you can actually move forward…”. The point is, it’s too difficult to let go of who you were, so I’m going to embrace who I am now without forgetting who I was.
I consider myself the writer for all women of my generation, only when I’m alone locked in the closet. In my youth my attitude was, “I’m going to make it as an actress now matter what…” I looked fantastic, so I could get away with that. I didn’t have any money, but at least I was young, thin and could buy a basketful of pants at Clothestime (the 90’s equivalent of Forever 21).
Now that I’ve exhausted every opportunity to go back, I’m coming to terms with my present. One thing that is driving me to drink at lunch time is the fact that even if I can control my urge to live in the past, I cannot control my husband’s urge to twist his neck every time a sexy little thing crosses his path. Hell who can blame him? I’m checking out these girls too – they must think I’m a lesbian cougar.
To be perfectly honest, I inject a lot of fantasy into my memories. If I remember correctly, I was a complete idiot in my twenties. I made every wrong decision on the face of this earth. I had my head up my ass most of the time, but people gave me forgave me because I was cute. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying every twenty year old is an idiot. In fact, I was so sheltered that I’m sure my mistakes were grossly out of touch with what society thought was normal. I realize now that there are very mature twenty year olds with a sound head on their shoulders. Kids are just more savvy now-a-days, so I like to pretend I was too. I did the math and now I realize that for every pound I’ve gained, one IQ point gets added to my intellect. I hope I don’t lose those IQ points on my new diet and exercise plan. My perimenopausal metabolism seems to be a formidable match for the Cardio Barre and daily 10 mile hikes, so maybe I have nothing to worry about. It’s true, age is just a number, but in LA it is also your identity. So some days when my fog starts to settle in, I try to get outside and walk the Hollywood trails. I secretly hope to run into Eva Longoria running in her tiny bikini and running shoes. If I manage not to cry, then I’ll know I’ve embraced my current state of being. But what are the odds?