Sunday morning I got up, threw on some shoes (no socks) and started walking to the corner qwik-mart to buy a paper. I didn't put on makeup. I didn't really comb my hair (but I generally have good hair so it's OK.) I was wearing a track-suit, which is an L.A. euphemism for "sweats." And I didn't think of any of this before I walked outside the door.
I felt pure freedom, not self-consciousness. Sure, this is L.A.
Looks, appearance, image are everything here and haven't they told you-- no one walks in L.A.
I'm not famous. No paparrazzo's knocking down my door (Thank God) and if I want to go to the corner market in my pj's, why should anyone care? And more importantly, why should I even care if they care.
Of course, if I were outside my neighborhood running errands along Ventura Blvd--as I often do, I'd go to a little more effort. Because don't get me wrong, I like to look nice, but there's a certain pleasure in emerging 'as is.' Secondly, I don't want to become one of those people profiled in a tabloid weekly with a black stripe across my face with the scathing words. In my walk to the corner market, I pass a strip mall, a strip club, a pawn shop, a laundromat, and two liquor stores, and oh yeah-- a place to buy real Indian hair. In fact, on my way home, I passed a Latino guy wearing pajama pants. I looked at him and smiled.
Photo credit: Irona Baby/flickr
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