March it Out, Ladies.

Oh dear, I can't sleep. I hope I'm not having a resurgence of the Great Insomnia Bout of 2006. Lots on my mind. Work, mainly. It's award season mania. And the usual other stuff. But it was 80-something in L.A. today and it was gorgeous and I wore tiny shorts and ate Pinkberry. That's me in my element.

Part of the problem with my insomnia these days is that I better get to sleep around midnight, because I almost always wake up at 7:something without an alarm and I just won't get enough sleep if I stay up past Colbert. And of course, because I'm freakishly into clean living these days, I like to be rested and chipper and in the gym early. I'm kind of obsessed with my gym. And I have my special place in the room I like to set up my step and my weights and my mat--second to the left in the front row. There are some girls I don't like in my body sculpting classes, mainly for reasons relating to the stories I've made up about their lives and then forgot weren't necessarily true. The tiny 4-foot-10 miss thing bothers me because I've seen her drive a giant SUV she can't possibly need, and she always talks about her kids in a snotty way that makes me think they'll grow up feeling unreasonably entitled, and also drive giant SUVs, and probably be mean to my kids at Brentwood school or something. Then there's the gal who's probably six months pregnant by now, which bothers me because, hello, you're pregnant, eat ice cream or something, don't come in here showing up the rest of us with your lithe-except-for-your-belly body smooth under Lululemon gear. OK, so that's the mean stuff.

There are also the people I really like for the same, possibly fictional reasons. Like the one Brazilian girl with the outrageous gravity-defying butt who doesn't annoy me even though she wears matchy-matchy workout gear with asymmetrical straps. And there's the gal I didn't used to like at all because I could never understand why she couldn't at least smile at me when I saw her every day in there, until she saw my magazine's logo on some cheesy swag tote bag I was carrying and then she came up to me and introduced herself and said she loves what I write, which was extra great since we've only been publishing in L.A. for less than a year now and I was just excited we have name recognition already, so of course I like her now, natch.

I have a new favorite, too. This woman is a grandmother. She is possibly in her mid-sixties, with pretty dark curly hair, and the brightest eyes and smile. She always says hello and tells me about her weekend, and one time told me about how she used to work out at Jane Fonda's studio in the '70s or whenever it was, and she used to wear the thong leotard over tights at that time. (I'll bet she was smokin' in neon green and purple, no joke.) And she told me recently how she'd done her hair for her Hamilton High School prom, and it sounded really cute. She's sincere and she seems utterly self actualized--and she keeps up with me step-touch for step-touch for just-eight-more-ladies-you-can-do-it!

He Said She Said

I didn't have a sip to drink in January, in an effort to reset after the holidays and a New Year's Eve party in Oakland involving wigs. At first, not drinking was hard, then it got real easy, then it got kind of boring. So on February 1, after I had fulfilled my pledge to myself to lay off for the first month of the year, I had two glasses of wine with some great old pals from 10th grade.* Then I spent the weekend with a lousy cold and haven't been motivated to drink since.

But I'll tell you what: spend an hour trolling MySpace indiscriminately, and you'll find a reason to crack a bottle of wine at home. In addition to making resolutions about no booze and a slightly uncanny-for-a-Dubin dedication to Equinox, I should have maybe resolved to un-MySpace my life. I mean, Jesus, I'm 29-and-a-half (gulp) years old, and it's kind of silly that I still care about this juvenile business. Last year, between the delightfully easygoing Midwesterner and the blue-eyed guy, I tried to go out with a boy who was 38 and so deeply into his bulletin postings and Top 8 that it was kind of a deal breaker, a sign of something more dire. A sign of not growing up, like failing to pay a stack of parking tickets, or not having health insurance, or being a dude who buys plastic cups to drink out of at home so he doesn't have to wash a dish.

*I had dinner and post-dinner mini-bar drinks in a Beverly Wilshire hotel room with three boys from North Hollywood high, where I went to school in 1992. I so rarely have a chance to really hear the perspective of straight men, because all my closest confidants are girls, and generally my closest male friends are gay (fashion industry gay, no less), and my boyfriend doesn't count because I'm too involved with that to get any real perspective. (Plus he prefers antique shopping while the game is on, so he's a special case, bless your heart, baby.) And my dad doesn't count because he's my dad. Anyway, I recommend listening to men once in a while, if you get the chance. It's mind blowing, actually.