A day on Rodeo.

Chanel Rodeo Drive
Today I drove my mom to LA so she could coach her University of Michigan EMBA students. She’s still healing from her surgery, so she isn’t suppose to drive. But she can coach. Clearly workaholism is in our genes.

Driving her meant I could spend the day working from the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Yes, the same Beverly Wilshire that Pretty Woman was filmed at.

L.A. is a funny place. (This is a topic I could create an entire blog for, but I’ll try to keep it simple here.) With all of its ambition, New York still has a warmth about it even in the ritziest places. This is not the case in L.A. 

One example: The concierge refused to check my bag for me because we weren’t “guests” of the hotel (we were actually, we just didn’t have our room yet). Then she proceeded to give me attitude about where I would be working from. Only in L.A. would someone working for you treat you with more condescension than someone you work for.

I suppose I shouldn’t generalize to all of L.A., though. There are definitely things that I love. It feels like a fairytale land for starters: the streets of Beverly Hills are immaculate and whimsical, and two, there’s some amazing people watching. Nowhere else in the world will you see an 85-year old woman wearing 8″ YSL stilettos, carrying a teacup pomeranian in an $19,000 Hermes Berkin bag. My green suede Louboutin’s paled in comparison.

You are already naked.

I’m sitting in the waiting room at UCI Cancer Center. It’s 10:49am; she should be out in an hour. There are pink ribbon gel gems on the windows, and a basket of “les fleurs” on the counter. It feels warmer than I’d imagined it would be.

I flew in from New York yesterday. Arriving just before her cut off for food intake, so we devoured a variety of Gummy Pandas I had picked up at JFK. Blueberry Acai was my favorite, hers was lemon ginger.

I cried when they told me they would give her the cadillac margarita of anesthesia.
“You only have one mom,” the doctor said as she carted mine away.

If you subscribe to the belief that challenges are what lead to growth, I should be six feet tall after the last two years. Instead I feel so fragile in this moment. Maybe I’m starting to realize that all of this stuff – all of this ambition – is just a coping mechanism. A way to artificially defend against the things I can’t control. Or maybe she’s just the greatest human being who’s ever lived.

Let’s forget all the things that we say.

Girl Shatters into Dust, by Shutterstock photographer Aleshyn Andrei
My mother tells me 90% of our thoughts are repetitive. Guess that explains why I keep rehashing everything about the last year and a half. All the things that were said. Not said.

Apparently thirty isn’t as wise as I hoped it would be. But I guess the truth always finds a way out, and when it does, there aren’t so many questions.

Let’s forget all the things that we say. (Julia Stone)

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