One thing about being back in LA: you’re definitely forced to think about yourself occupying a “physical space.” In New York, you can get away with being a neurasthenic writer with little or no care given to grooming, and your weight can fluctuate about 10 lbs. either way without anyone particularly giving a shit. But the visual social structure here is so exacting that you honestly find yourself looking at yourself all the time.
Strange thing is, this is occurring at a time in my life when I feel the Desire to Be Physically Acceptable beginning to slip away. I think we must spend so many years trying desperately to measure up to the other gender (or your same gender, if that’s the way you butter your bread) that we get to a point where we are simply EXHAUSTED.
For some, this means finally getting nice and fat. For others, like me, it means living in that in-between state of sucking in my gut, but not really feeling like sucking in my gut anymore. I think Tessa and I are doing fine:
2001, April 2002, April 2003, April 2004
But as I sit around all of these cast members, 15-year-old hotties and 25-year-old bombshells, I sometimes forget that I don’t need to care anymore. I wonder how it feels for beautiful women after they get married, or after they reach that magical age when they are no longer instantly considered sexual