Pretentious moi?

When I first got out to Los Angeles, wet behind the ears, green as a nerdy non flip flop wearing Brit, I was keen as mustard to get myself down, out and rubbing shoulders with the cream of who L.A. had to offer. Yes, the type of people who had once shared a taxi with Kim Kardashian, been at a party with someone from Saved by The Bell or crashed in a hotel room with LiLo.

Surely, I would meet and make friends with such skinny, high voiced, curled-haired extension wearing partygoers?

But unfortunately, perceived trendiness was never my forte. At school, my first act of rebellion was probably trying a cigarette at 17, and managing to lose my voice after the first few drags.  As a teenager, my main admonishments from my parents were a) reading too much and not getting enough fresh air b) leaving my homework too late on a Sunday night.

So I deliberately shunned trendy, although, as a side note, these days, it’s equally as hard to fit in with the geeks, who have become so cool, they are painfully fashionable.

Living in Los Angeles would surely give me the chance to embrace my inner trendy self, I thought. This inner happening groovester was clearly just itching to get out and embrace the most happening, hot places in a city like never before.

Well, I did try.

I tried to fit into the places where the entrance corridors are padded white, like some kind of loony bin, policed by impossibly handsome men with clipboards and ear pieces, places where you have to take an elevator to a bar, while trying not swoon to the stench of Dior Homme.

I tried to match the smooth haired girls who could walk in platform heels without losing control of their ankles, who could convincingly swarm around men with wallets as deep as their tans.

I tried, but just couldn’t find it in myself to gyrate alongside them, arms akimbo, narrow hips swinging to random R& B tunes, while men with designer facial hair produced credit cards to purchase a couple of $1000 bottles of vodka needed to secure that coveted trendy table.

Dear reader, I failed.

Unlike these hipster masses, I would arrive in inappropriately comfortable shoes, a skirt which ran longer than mid thigh and hair which I’d failed to adequately blow dry.

I found I had an inability to restrain myself from leaving the string of designer berries INSIDE the cocktail after drinking it, instead sticking my fingers inside the glass and polishing off the sodden fruit with a degree of relish.  

I also failed to muster that innate and much envied confidence needed to outmaneuver the sharp men posted on the door and was once sheepishly ordered to walk about two miles to ‘the other’ entrance of the bar, like an obvious non celebrity.

I would try to HAVE A CONVERSATION in these places. But no-one actually talks, at least not much. Girls dance, look beautiful and sip their cocktails with sugared rims, while the men wear sunglasses and cross their white trouser clad legs over miniscule ‘cube’ style bar seats.

It is a silent paradise of thumping neon.

So, nowadays, I’ve had to give up the comfy white couches, views of unused swimming pools and downing booze-laden berries in favour of windowless bars with grimy fairylights, sawdust laden floors and dirty rock and roll on the jukebox.

And you know what?

I kind of like it.