My Night of Glamour!

Not really. I came by here at about 10:30 last night for the party. There was a moderate-sized crowd outside the doors, but, more impressively, a dozen or so photographers and reporters standing at the electronic gates in the lobby.

The loft was completely dark, though, so it was impossible to see the celebrities rumored to be flitting about. Foiled! I did a three circuits and left -- I was all alone, which is a stupid way to arrive -- or stay -- at a party. The women looked glossy and professional, the men cute (though not as cute as the bartenders) and many were wearing those Elvis Costello black specs I find so fetching. At one point I did see some photographers shooting two girls, who were pressed up against one another and smirking, in approved fashionista style. I didn't recognize them, but I wasn't standing that close. There was a small, curious crowd around them -- moths to the flame -- we onlookers tried to figure out whether they were stars of an MTV reality show, or just pretty publicists. I did not see Drew Barrymore, though I think she was there. On the way out, however, I did see Maggie Gyllenhaal (spelling?) standing with two older women by the elevator banks. I could only tell it was her because there was decent lighting.

I wish I'd been able to enjoy last night. When I walked in the door the DJ was playing Heart of Glass. Then it was Gnarls Barkley' Crazy (I hear that song everywhere. All. The. Time.) and when Bizarre Love Triangle came on I thought, this DJ is my age! He knows all the songs I know! I wanted so much to be able to enjoy myself, but yesterday I was in such a terrible mood, and I thought, going to parties and staring at cute boys and fantasizing that I am with one of them is exactly what I have been doing for 20 years now. Or thereabouts. I've always told myself to wait a bit, I'll meet someone who'll flirt with me. But at what point do you stop living in reasonable expectation and switch to amiable resignation for for fear of being one of those pathetic spinsters who keeps hoping, long after anyone will look at her?

God, I really sound morose. I'm not usually like this. I'm just really cranky about my career (uh, I mean, the lack of it). I'm writing, but not working hard enough at getting a writing job, and fearful that even if I do work really hard, I still won't get a decent job. I think I would be pretty reconciled to almost everything if I had a satisfying work life. I mean, doubtless I would still complain, but I wouldn't be overcome with the belief that I am wasting my life, not living up to my potential, becoming a source of pity and contempt for my friends (God, please not that). Truth be told, I don't actually mind being single. I so enjoyed last spring when I was on my dating/sex spree. It's just that right now, when I'm feeling vulnerable, it's another rock to hit myself over the head with: You are 33 and work as a temp. No one fancies you. And let's not forget You can barely make ends meet. All true. Sometimes these facts don't seem as grim as they have this past week.

It's hard work, being optimistic. I am naturally a pessimist. A few years ago I read a book called Learned Optimism, which says that pessimists actually have a better grip on reality than optimists. But it doesn't do them any good. It's much healthier to maintain a certain degree of delusion about yourself, and your future. It's an effort for me, and right now I'm grudging that effort. I think I might start taking the Lamictol again -- Dr. C. advised it.