In most of the world, when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. In LA, when life gives you lemons, you squeeze them onto your upper lip and wait for them to do their natural bleaching magic.

Everyone’s heard it before, but appearance really is everything. Half of the people in this city are hoping to be recognized as unmined screen gems each time they set foot outside their homes, which increases the pressure on the rest of us to at least try a little bit, if only to avoid being mistaken for vagrants in comparison to the perky hopefuls that so brighten our lives with their umph and bounce and spunk. Unfortunately, I often find myself on the verge of being mistaken.

Presumably in the absence of any other female acquaintances, a photographer friend asked me recently if I would model a wearable artpiece for a photoshoot. I agreed immediately, and he asked if I could bring along any chic or fashion-forward tops that I might have so we could play around with different looks. I thought for a long time, mentally rifling through my entire wardrobe, before determining that I did not own a single piece of chic clothing, top or bottom.

I guess I could chalk it up to the fact that I am desperately poor, but how often is poverty an acceptable excuse for poor fashion sense in this age of hipster chic? My cotton t-shirts could easily become fashionable if I took 20 minutes out of my hectic internet-addiction to splash them with bleach and cut them into more pleasing shapes. White v-neck t-shirts cost $2 each, and haven’t gone out of style since 1952. What it really comes down to is plain old laziness.

I did pretty well without much effort in my prior locales, but in these parts, looking good is pursued with the intensity most people reserve for their lovers, or at least for their jobs. Makes me feel like my priorities need some straightening, but surely that’s wrong. Why does it matter if I my t-shirt advertises a conference I attended in college? Why should I feel terrible if my sexy-by-summer workout plans go off the rails in mid-May and are fully sabotaged by an unending parade of June wedding cakes? I guess I’d rather be a plump, slightly mustachioed vagrant in a dorky t-shirt than miss out on any celebratory cakes that cross my path or spend fewer hours learning about deep sea creatures. Maybe in the future I’ll change my tune, but for the moment, I’m going to keep using my lemons to make lemonade. Or maybe lemon tarts…

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