A friend and I went to see the film "Blue Valentine" because her husband highly recommended the fine acting (i.e. excessively gratuitous sex). I pretty much hated every moment (minus the excessively gratuitous sex). I haven't experienced that kind of torture in a movie theater since "The Passion of the Christ." The feelings of pukeness didn't come so much from the reality TV style re-creation of some of my worse break-ups, but because there wasn't so much as a Alka-Seltzer bubble of romantic chemistry between the two ridiculously hot actors (Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling). Ridiculously Hot isn't a substitute for that mysterious soul connection, but does work fantastically well for watching people get it on.

However, an hour into it, assuming all the sex scenes were over, I made an escape to the bathroom from a particularly unconvincing moment when the two characters are "falling in love." When I came back to my seat my friend leaned over and whispered.

"You missed the best sex scene! They had oral sex and showed everything!"

Failed again by my timing-challenged nature.

When it was finally over, I breathed a sigh of relief and prepared to turn to my friend, roll my eyes, and say something like, "Can you believe she was nominated for an Oscar?."

"Wow, that was really good," said my friend.

"Yeah, it sure was," I answered, because I'm a mega-coward when it comes to disagreeing with people's opinions about arts and entertainment.

Just for today, I can go to the movies.

It's tough being a Single Woman Over A Certain Age. You make people uncomfortable. (People = Non Single Women + Mom).

We live in a world where a person can sell a gun to a young, emotionally volatile white male with a history of erratic anti-social behavior, but you can't talk to a woman between the age of 35 and 40 for five minutes without a) inquiring about her single relationship status and b) treating it like a stick of plutonium that was dropped in a port-a-potty.

So, I signed up (again) for that giant sociological experiment of self-generating research and massive profits also known as "Match.com." However, because it took a few days for me to work through my commitment issues to pay for this "service" (why aren't they paying me to be on it?), I got a "wink" from a few people whose profiles I didn't have access to.

This is the message Match.com sent me.

"He just winked at you! Out of millions of member he picked you!"

Seriously...Match.com...Do you really expect me to believe that I'm the only one to inspire the effort of clicking on a mouse? And in keeping with the name "Match.com," does anyone have millions to choose from?!

Then I got some emails. Here is the message they sent.

"Something about you caught his eye. Hurry!…Find Out Who Emailed You and Connect Today!

Caught his eye? You mean he wasn't stunned by my brilliant headline? Hurry?! Why? Because I'm 38? Is The One in a hurry, too? Did he have commitment issues shelling out $70?

Match needs a new copywriter.

"Relationships take time...don't get your hopes up right away."

Or...

"You live in a different age than your mother...tell her it's none of her business and keep an open mind."

Or even...

"You get points for trying. So, what if nothing is going on here? Open that Malbec and relax!"

Ok, I need to work on some of these.

Just for today, I'm happy being single.

I can't talk to my mom about any of my physical ailments because I know it will begin with, "As you get older..."

YES, MOM, I KNOW I'M OLD!

Still, every minute is more information I didn't previously have. Wishing to be young is like wanting ignorance and cluelessness. Which isn't to say that age guarantees wisdom (i.e., Mel Gibson, Martin Sheen), or that I haven't met people barely out of college who have their shit so tightly put together you could build an ecological house with it [Note: I once heard that some African tribes actually made houses out of manure shaped like bricks] [Note On Note: I don't know where I got that last piece of information...I just remember hearing that "shitting bricks" wasn't just an expression].

In my years walking the planet, I like to think I have come up with a few equations to understand life.

1) Youth = Shit Happens

2) Age = Shit Still Happens

3) Age + Self Reflection = Shit Still Happens + Less Dumbass

4) Age + Self Reflection + Adjustments = Less Self-Generated Shit Happening

5) Age - Self Reflection = Self-Generated Shit Is The Norm

6) Beer + French Fries + Ice Cream = Love Handles

7) Life - $ = Stress

And, yet...

8) $ ≠ No Stress

9) $ ≠ Security

10) Boyfriend ≠ Feelings of Self Worth

11) $ + Boyfriend + Self-Reflection = Perspective - Complaints

I should probably have some bigger equation, but I wasn't good at math.

Just for today, I might have some wisdom.

I recently saw an Old Friend/Ex-Something who, for a variety of boring reasons, ended up taking me for a ride in his new leased Mercedez.

"Mid-life crisis?"

"No, I just really wanted a sports car."

Same thing!

But I get it. I have the girl version of mid-life spending issues.

You really want It. It's very expensive. And, yet, all you know for sure is that you will die someday. Sooner than you thought. Or worse, you will look old. Nice Pricey Thing+Awareness of Mortality=Money Gone That Could Still Be There.

However, I have also been suffering from "frugality fatigue syndrome," also known as Marshall's/Ross/Target School of Style. And, honestly, if my rain coat were Prada, it could not garner more compliments or look more kick-ass. But there's only so many times I can walk past the displayed clothes and into the sales rack before I start feeling like the kid with the sugar-free lunch. Which is all to say that today I walked into [Insert Store I'm Embarrassed To Be Shopping At] and threw down FULL PRICE RETAIL...Bitch!

Damn right, I call that a paycheck.

Later, I went to Abbot-Kinney, home of the muted tones, $200 tank-tops (on sale!) and sales ladies (not sure what else to call them) who, with a few exceptions, possess a look of stoicism that would melt Spock into a puddle. With one glance, while folding the hand woven, silk, Guatemalan-beaded, specially dyed, organic [Insert Clothing Item I've Never Heard Of] they seem to say, "I know you're not buying anything here, Target Raincoat Lady, and I'm not paid enough to smile." I wish I could take off a mask and reveal myself be Gwyneth Paltrow.

Seriously, though, I'm really glad I don't have to try to sell $800 sweaters. Talk about pressure.

Just for today, I'm spending money.

(SFX: SUPER ANNOYING ALARM SOUND)

WHAT?! What's happening? Why is it so early?! W.T.F? Job. Oh, yeah. Job?! Late! Go!

Shower. Jeans. Boots. Hair (sort of) dry. Car. Coffee. Peete's...long line. Order faster, Coffee Drinkers. Damn high-maintenance Coffee Drinkers! See fellow Coffee Drinker Friend. Hello...late, commute, rush, bye! Coffee! Magical coffee feelings. I heart coffee. It's a new day! Freeway. 405. Straight shot...woohoo! I love driving, too! Slow down. Stop. Stay stopped. WHAT?! WHY ARE WE STOPPED?! Open traffic app on Blackberry. Accident?! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?! #$&*@! Denial. Anger. Sadness. WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?! #$%*! WHY DO I LIVE IN LA?! Acceptance. Speed up again. Oh, thank God. Mysterious traffic flow. (Note to self: Study traffic flows). Faster. Flying. Coffee. NPR! KCRDUB! Bright sun! Going to work! Woohoo! More traffic. WHAT?! I HATE YOU 405! Get off the 405. PCH. Beach, ocean, waves, surfers. Wow. California is pretty nice. I live here. Surfers. Why don't I surf? (Note to self: SURF BEFORE YOU DIE!). Take picture of view while driving. Apply make-up while driving. Talk on phone. See cop. Stop everything. Hands on wheel. Slow down. Cops don't care. Speed up. Arrived!

Work.

"Happy Friday!"

Friday. Happy. Drive home.

Just for today, I commute to work.

Yesterday, several people at my new job walked up to me and introduced themselves. I thought maybe they mistook me for the person who received the giant bottle of Patron (it's sitting on my desk next to a box of wine...). Then the same thing happened today. Who are these people?! I don't have to work with them. What do they want from me?!

And then I realized...I'm not in LA anymore, Land of No Eye Contact and Parallel Universes.

I've worked at agencies for weeks without so much as a nod from the person sitting next to me, a few feet away, and yet, living in another world. I came to accept that that, in this Darwinian work culture, extraneous people were no more than possible objects of collision, like plants or walls. Names came way too later, after I'd gotten used to the nicknames (Goatee and Hip Rock T-Shirts Man), or after I'd been forced into a person's Circle of Immediate Reality, like people thrown in an elevator together. Everything else is a blur. There are exceptions, but generally speaking the first few weeks or months of working in a new place is a time of invisibility. You may be gone a few weeks later. You're expendable. You're in Corporate America.

But my commute takes me outside of LA and into the midwest (aka, Orange County).

Just for today, I'm realizing what a callous bitch I've become.