I feel more attractive almost anywhere else in the world than LA

The Portuguese guitarist along the South Bank.

The friend of a friend at dinner.

The man in the lobby of the National Theatre.

Almost every single man in the pub that Wednesday night.

The young guy who worked in Wagamama.

The tall man from Manchester in a tweed suit on the train to Gatwick.

The older gentleman buying a ticket to see The Artist at the Vue, Finchley.

A handful of old work colleagues.

I could go on but I won’t because I’m only projecting what I thought was happening, but in the UK, it seems that I still turn heads.

While here in LA, I’m invisible.

At first, I couldn’t work out why men were looking at me.

I would check to see if my hat was on straight or had something on my teeth before it dawned on me that they were checking me out. Flirting, even.

It was amazing.Weird.

Welcome.

I’m so used to be looked through – not at – when I go out here. I can’t remember the last time a guy in LA showed even a flicker of interest. It’s been hard to accept. Baffling.

There’s a lot of good stuff going on in this little package but you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in this town who appreciates it.

It’s tempting not to think about leaving LA because of it.

But the bottom line is this: I don’t want to be seen as invisible at 43.

Especially when the past six weeks in Europe has shown me that I am not.

What to do?

Spinny out.

 

 

 

 

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