By Dale Brasel
I’m glad that I’m not Julia Roberts. There are many reasons for this, but mainly because I believe that she has too much self-esteem. I live in Los Angeles—Sherman Oaks to be exact, which even though is the neighboring community to Beverly Hills and Bel Air, is considered The Burbs. That’s because The S.O. is on The Valley side, or what we Los Angelenos term “over the hill.” Being “over the hill” has a particular, less-than-hip stigma attached to it, in more ways than one. Even though for the past year and a half I’ve lived in this beautiful, sprawling house in one of the most desirable zip codes in the city with television star neighbors (if you are into such things), a gardener, a pool man, and enough fruit trees to make Anita Bryant raise an eyebrow, I never ordered a land line because I didn’t want an (818) area code. Never mind that I am living more than a little bit past my financial means, it isn’t my empty wallet messing with my self-esteem, but my area code.
This brings me back to Julia Roberts. I’m sure she is a fine woman…even a pretty woman…but she always seems to come across as just too damn confident, and I blame this on questionable self esteem. When you are a teenager, you are lousy with self-esteem. Somewhere in your twenties and mid-thirties, it gets a little shaky. By your forties it seems to be back in check…most of the time. There are some people who just have too much confidence (and feel free to insert your own definition of “too much” here), but still battle self esteem issues in the oddest ways: me, for example, and my over the hill (818) area code phobia.
The overly confident yet self-esteem challenged (we’ll call them OCYSECs) are people who can never, ever ride in the back seat of a car because they claim to get car sick, unless of course you are in a situation with a chauffeured sedan, then under no circumstance can these people ever, ever ride in the front seat. You know whom I am speaking of. They are the women who spend $1,500 on a pair of shoes, only to lament about wearing them for fear that someone will recognize the shoes as past season. People that spend an obnoxious amount of money on a house and ultra trendy furniture, but at the house warming party don’t have a piece of art on the walls or a single book on a shelf (having said that, it is quite possible they have a single art book on a coffee table along the lines of Nagel: The Art of Patrick Nagel). It’s the “dude” that when you are taking two cars to a destination breaks every traffic rule in the book just so they can arrive seconds before you to shout “I win” for the nonexistent road race. OCYSECs must be the first to have the new iPhone, iPod, iPad, or iWhatever, not for technology sake, but for flash appeal. They remove the Zara and H&M labels from their clothing, and when you compliment them on their attire pass them off as big name designers. The people who assumingly always evenly split the bill at the end of a group meal, even though they ordered the priciest menu items and three bottles of wine, of which you had exactly half a glass. At night, Black American Express cards fill their OCYSEC dreams. Isn’t it curious that nearly all of the above habits are usually bundled together as a package deal?
I was recently in a tony store selling a gothic-inspired, human head-sized candle that was marked in excess of $1,000. Not an ornate candleholder, just a conglomeration of beeswax. Who buys such a thing? Cher? I asked the saleswoman about it and she tells me that they can’t keep them in stock. I commented on how great the scent must be, and she scolds, “You don’t burn it…you put little tea lights inside of it hidden under the rim and burn those. It’s more about the perception. It’s a showpiece.” It got me thinking about my own post-forty self-esteem status: am I a just a big wedge of pricey wax, and my evaded (818) area code a hidden tea light?
Am I an OCYSEC? I hope that I have evolved more than that. The gardener and the pool man came yesterday. Time to pick some oranges off of my trees, squeeze some juice for fresh mimosas sipped poolside at my “over the hill” home…and not be concerned with Julia Roberts. If you need to reach me, it’s still by my (323) area code cell phone. Damn, if not an OCYSEC, I am at least a tea light.
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