Scenes from la Cuenca de Los Angeles y otros Natural Disasters

XI. South Coast Plaza Crónica

XI South Coast Plaza Crónica 83 30 December 2006 Los Angeles For Laura “Wiggue” Silverman, Pablo “Hugo” Zambrano, and Tommy McGhee Of course, se pueden imaginar the complete relief I feel after my BUSTO scare. Haven’t been able to “do” much of anything for a few days, primero por la hideous ansiedad (o anguhtia, como dicen en Argentina ) de la espera, de no saber, y ahora, in that bland, soft, floaty relief del después. So, to celebrate the fact of my non-imminent salida de la vida, Pierre and I went to South Coast Plaza yesterday—antaño nuestro mall preferido. We hadn’t been in a while, probably al menos un par de años. Anygüey, you know me, lo supersticiosa que soy: había prometido que if I did not have cáncer del buhto I would STOP de una puta vez putting myself down phobically about los looks, dizque weight issues (conste, la B-2 dice que tengo un light case of body dysmorphia, y bueno, she’s a nutritionist, she should know, ¿no?), y otros “superficial” topix like that. Pero unfortunately, less than twenty-four hours after my latest solemn vows to be ABOVE IT ALL, in the ritzy (I mean: YSL, Donna Karan, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Armani, Ron Herman, D&G, ad nauseum) shop windows I caught a glimpse of myself bajo las despiadadas luces fluorescentes del mall and harshly judged myself as wanting. Al mirarme con ojo crítico (what other kind do I have, la neta?), I looked haggard. ¡Mi peor fobia! Definitely not hip. Mis cabellos, my dizque crowning gloria de rulos castaños, de repente se miraban straggly, almost dweedly. Peor, of no color found en la naturaleza. What is that orange? OMG: hay que poner a Raimundo Riojas, mi peluquero, on speed-dial. Joder. Para colmo me sentía, de repente, horribly underdressed compared to the multitudes of teensy, coltish O.C. Asian or (equally teensy pero tambi én) pneumatically busto- and lip-inflated, blow-arriba dolls, las blonde, suburban socialite housewives who frequent South Coast Plaza. I cursed my need for gafas (even if Prada), really, hay que admitirlo, pretty much 24/7 now. Porque me parece que me ofuscan mi “mejor” feature: los ojos. Bueno, at least they used to be. Digo, mi best feature. I also cursed my indigo velvet DKNY pants, inherited from Tommy McGhee (pareja de Raphy), which I always thought made me look so louche, digámoslo, tan directamente hot in Argentina. Pero ayer, in those South Coast Plaza store vitrinas, I saw them for what they are: baggy in the nalga and then falling unfashionably straight, casi PEGlegged . Uf! ¡Chale! Definitivamente out y poco flattering. What was I thinking? Los había estado guardando. I’d hung on, clung on to them cual náufrago a life raft durante los dos años of my discontent , of my metabolic slowdown and concomitante blimpificación, debida a las fucking beta-blockers (único grave error del otherwise superlative Dr. Scott: recetarme esas malditas pahtishas). I had been waiting, biding my time till I could once again pull them on in all their baggy glory y sentirme sylphlike, sexy. Like I did in the southern hemisphere. 84 South Coast Plaza Crónica 85 South Coast Plaza Crónica Y ahora, I can. Que health diet, yoga, cero martini lunches y sobre todo, sobre todo, mis health walks, three, four, a veces five times a week. Five kilometers de speed walking y hasta running, in little bursts (a esto lo llaman interval training, me lo dijo mi advisee la Elaine McGlaughlin , experta runner: debo recordarlo) until my lungs swell to bursting and words combine and rub and jostle, exploding in my brain, sentidos y poros abiertos to the sight of a sudden, whirling hawk, a startling whiff of damp skunk grass, or to pods and buds everywhere abriéndose en la too-early primavera last winter y ahora, a las curled brown leaves scuttling underfoot en la extrema sequedad de lo que se llama invierno aquí en SoCal these days. I can pull those velvet trousers on again. They slip on with ease, not digging or clinging anywhere. You’d think I’d be satisfied. Sobre la luna, de hecho, ¿no? Pero you know me: me miré en esos fucking funhouse mirror shop windows and just thought: ugh...