In truth, I have always felt a sense of resentment that I was not born in Los Angeles. From the outside looking in, I always soothed my jealous rage with the notion that those who were lucky enough to be born here had done something genuinely altruistic in their previous lives. I naturally assumed there was a merit system based on good deeds and therefore one must have acquired sufficient credentials to earn a place amongst the shade of the palms and the crash of the waves. Possibly teaching a deaf blind puppy to read would warrant such a prize; I don’t know, I consider that a fair trade for paradise.
As I explore the area, my ability to objectively judge- if such a thing exists- is compromised by the prime shopping, delicious eateries and sunshine. These factors tint the lenses of my Dior sunglasses* a distinctive shade of rose as I unconsciously block out the ideas of pending credit card bills, expanding waist lines and melanoma. I believe the scientific terminology of the sensation I am describing is "warm fuzzies". Alas, I am not a science major, so to be certain I will cross-reference it with Wikipedia at a later date.
The L.A. perfection is further personified by the unreal (and also, on occasion, real) hard bodies at the beach; the disproportionate ratio of sunny versus rainy days; and of course the 2007 USC Trojans atop every pre-season poll- Fight on!
Are my casual observations superficial? Perhaps. I guess I will have to ponder it poolside as soon as someone can get my back.
*When in Rome.
- Emily Nerland