The first full week of work is over. And while I'm doing smashingly, I'll admit to those who want to know, the novelty of a new job, although it was slight at best to start with, is gone. The thrill of new excel sheets to update, gone. The prospect of fast friends with my coworkers, dead. As only the third employee of a small branch of a medium-sized company, pickings are slim and office gossip virtually non-existent.
Driving again, an activity completely superflous in New York, had seemed alluring upon arrival to Los Angeles. Windows down, sunroof open, music blasting, traveling from place to place was an adventure unto itself. Having listened now to the three cds I have here over 100 times each, they have grown, well...tired. The new Kanye West album, while genius, is getting old. I feel bad for being white. I feel bad for having a "higher" education. I feel bad for letting men take me out to dinner. I feel bad for having new shoes. Well, no, I guess the only thing I really feel bad for is not having a tenth of Kanye's talent. And, of course, not having more than three cds.
Also wearing thin or fading altogether, are the few friendships I thought I had here. I can only call people so many times before feelings of desperation set in. Having only a handful of people to call upon here for social plans, it becomes tempting to call those few again and again. And thus far, I have given into temptation. And I feel that I'm about to become "that girl" very fast. You know, the one who doesn't get the hint. The one who's always hanging around. The one who lingers and tries to usurp your friends and your friend's friends. Yes, that's me. Leave me in a room with your pals for long enough, and I will have acquired their stats, their numbers and promises for phone calls later, plans next week, friendships to bud at a later date.
Hopes for chic parties with chic people have not panned out thus far. Two house parties later, I've not entered the coveted velvet rope I had near-mastered in New York's club-infested nightlife. I have not even seen one here as of yet. The closest I've come near celebrity is Nicole Richie and fiance DJ AM dining with Mischa Barton and unidentifiable gentleman at The Ivy. In other words, daddy's girl, famous for Daddy's money and a willingness to flaunt her insensitivity and ignorance on national reality television. DJ, famous for fiance's money and said willingness to behave like an ass. Teeny-bopper star, famous for mediocre acting skills, a pretty face, and feet fit for Keds. Unidentified Mystery Man, soon to be famous for relationship with the pretty face.
Well, it's all becoming a bit less glamorous, this city that I'm learning is not quite a city [but more on that later]--the employers that treat me like a glorified intern, the freeways and the maps and the lost hours trying to find the neighboring region, listening to Missy's new single for the umpteenth time, the friends who are coming fast to resent me and my calls and my confusion, the starlets who get better seating at The Ivy despite the fact the the 40 bucks I'm throwing down for the lunch salad is a much greater sacfifice.
I feel lonely in Los Angeles, the city of healthier eating and a slower pace, the city of fifteen minutes of fame, the city of freeways, the City of Angels.