My god, I had a fun/weird/t.v. moment this last Saturday. And I’m actually surprised that I’m surprised about how odd the evening transpired since I have lived in Malibu, one of the most body conscious, wealth concerned insulated areas IN.THE.WORLD. So, going out to a super trendy restaurant with a group of girls should be the norm, minus that fact that it wasn’t, it hasn’t been in awhile, and I had a bumpy takeoff, before maintaining a smooth flight and a stunning landing.
A girlfriend of mine was visiting from the Southern lands of California for a photo shoot, and informed me upon us first getting together that she had spent the last week eating a combination of flax seeds mixed with water and heated in the microwave, “kind of like oatmeal”….and that’s all. She obviously wanted her already teeny tiny body to look the best that she thought it could, and being a lover of all things celebrity trash, I’m aware of how much people put into being slim, looking hot on film, and the extensive measures they’ll take to get there. Immediately after the shoot, she commented on the huge plate of spaghetti carbonara she consumed , and how eating so many carbs made her feel ill with cream and bacon goodness. Now she would bypass dinner and just enjoy her friends’ company because enough food had passed her lips. Ok, that’s all good, I can imagine that one would feel gross after not eating for awhile to consume a huge, rich meal, so no biggie. There were going to be 3 more girls also coming, our first introduction, and surely we would all overcompensate for one missing meal at the table.
Arriving at the restaurant Delarosa, in the city (www.delarosasf.com ), I was surprised at how packed it was with uber hipsters. I mean, I had taken little time in planning my outfit of skinny jeans, big heals, tank top and blazer, just feeling like it I didn’t want to be too fancy, but just a little bit pomped and circumstanced. I had a laugh when I arrived to find ALL THE LADIES, and the female population of the ENTIRE bar, dressed in exactly the same fashion. And they were all much, much hotter than I. (SIDEBAR: I just want to say egotistically that I don’t think I’m a bad looking lady, just a lot more Beyonce, than the average Kelly Rippa. These ladies just looked PER-FECT…no hair out of place, no bit of makeup too much or too little, all the plastic in all the “right” places). I had a silent chuckle to myself at my sudden evolution into twin-time, and started downing my first Kir Royal of the eveing…ah, I do love champagne and it never, ever loves me back.
By the time we were shown to our table, we had discussed super serious topics: what we look for in wealthy men, the horrible changing of our bodies as we age, the supplements, creams, and treatments we can use to reverse said effects, the exhaustion of our social schedules, and how good each of us looked for our age. “No YOU look amazing”, “Stop! I look horrible, look at my skin! No, YOU look phenomenal!”, “Both of you stop, I look like a god damned 35 year old woman, I’ve totally let myself go! You two are still looking like hot twenty year olds!”
I started on my second Kir.
When we finally got seated, it was in a cafeteria- type setting where all different types of groups shared one long table, and at the capacity that this restaurant was pushing, I was literally in my neighbor’s lap, which was disconcerting because he was obviously on a date, but now a double date: him, her and my ass in his lap. Since this restaurant was known for its homemade pastas in small portions, and based on eating out with chicks before, I believed we all order a few things and share, getting to taste many different treats and savor the wonderful food. False. I order a pasta, to share if any lady would like, and the four other women split….share….halfway consumed between each other: 2 order of Brussels sprouts, and one arugula and parmesan flake salad. Done. And then they didn’t finish it. Now, I’m bummed out. I’m debating whether I should even eat mine, since all the women are not even looking at me when my food arrives, and I’m starting to feel like the chubby, carb duckling. Welcome Kir Royal, number 3.
By this time, I can’t change the course of events and I certainly can’t change myself, so I plow through my amazing pasta, drink like a fish, and keep the whole table laughing with jokes about my travels, my political views, and the joys of not competing with Giselle as the hottest woman in the world. I had a terrific time, too terrific in fact. Roy had to come pick me up so that I wouldn’t drink irresponsibly (thanks baby!), those damned 4 Kirs! But what I did learn is that I’ll never be a size 00…I wouldn’t like getting there, I wouldn’t look good there, I’m too much of a foodie to live there, and my booty serves as the determining factor for first date successes! I do admire any person who has a strict constitution to do anything dramatically, and I did keep my opinions about their health and livelihood to myself as, to each their own. But I found that I liked myself, my meal, my conversation, and my individual way enough to swap numbers with my new uber tiny friends, and arrange to meet up again for another non-meal/meal at the fantastic restaurant of their choice.