Nip, Tuck
One of my loveliest friends in Los Angeles takes me out for a wonderful breakfast once a month. We go to a very fancy restaurant in West Hollywood, or WeHo as the gay community fondly calls it.
I love going there as the decor is beautiful, the menu delicious, and the service impeccable.
The scenery, or people watching, however, is rather bizarre. The restaurant is filled almost uniquely with impeccably groomed gay men (absolutely delightful) and women in their late forties or fifties...at least that's how old I think they are.
Either they all see the same surgeon or they all ordered the same mask...I mean face; teeny tiny nose, slightly slanty eyes, and remarkably pouty lips; somewhere between Charro and Joan rivers. These eerily clone like ladies have unbelievably smooth complexions, very little facial expression, and enormous difficulty drinking liquids. I have to wonder how their husbands tell them apart when they go out in a group!
The really scary part is that they forgot to match their necks to their faces so below the chin they look like lizards, that is of course until you reach their chests which are like boulders on their little stick bodies... they're all skinny little things probably because they've lost their ability to chew...now that I think about it shelf boobs must come in handy to catch the food and drink that never quite makes it in to their mouths!
They all seem very lovely and very sweet, but I'm never quite sure if they're very happy as their expression hovers somewhere between a grin and a frown.I do see the envy in their eyes though when they see me inhale my whole meal in mere seconds.
Anyway, my point is, I'm never doing that!
My breakfasts at this jushy joint make me forget my clumsiness and feel graceful and co-ordinated, they are like therapy sessions for my self esteem, make me grateful for the lines life's laughter and worry have left behind, and help nurture my sometimes unstable relationship with gravity.
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