Chew on this.

Dana Point is a posh resort area and suburb now.  I understand from my sister that until recently it didn't used to be, that it used to be just a sleepy coastal area with a nice little beach, some lovely tide pools and a couple of boats, and that we used to go there with our parents a lot when we were kids, but I truly don't remember.  Now it is an enclave.

The kind of Californians who seem to live in or frequent the area nowadays mostly look like the kind who are very concerned about health and fitness, though I must suspect a certain portion of being concerned only about appearing to be concerned about health and fitness.  Regardless, all these folks look like they have a lot of money and a lot of leisure time, though I don't know how many would qualify the time spent on their health and fitness as "leisure."

While on their turf, I witnessed what I could not help but dub the "Morning Momenade," a promenade of young white women all of an identical suntanny skin color in identically shaped trim and muscular bodies determinedly, almost aggressively marching along en masse with double-wide strollers and identical workout gear across a wide, evenly mowed lawn of the public park, then down past the marina toward the beach.  On my chip of a balcony at the Marriott, I overheard then leaned over the rail and saw a strange morning fitness class that seemed to involve young women from sylph-like to a little chubby all wearing that same brand of workout gear (whatever it is), going back and forth across another of the public lawns with jump ropes and brightly colored inflatable exercise balls, all to a rhythm yapped out by an ever-so-slightly abusive female leader with a scorchingly perky voice.  (And once again I found myself thinking of The Prisoner in connection with exercise balls.  Hmm.  Perhaps it was the presence of the ocean.  Or perhaps not.)

Around 8:30 Friday morning a week ago, having set out to explore the locale with a willing heart and a walking pack full of art supplies, I found myself among them.  I saw old people.  I saw young people.  I saw people of many races.  I even saw other fat people, eventually, but that's a different story for another post.

Then I saw a place, the kind of place which does not exist anywhere in Massachusetts,  a place where I could get granola topped with nonfat yogurt and fresh fruit, and freshly made juice pressed to order from all kinds of delicious produce, where I could dine like the true California health princess I once was (or imagined myself to be), lavishly, positively, and for under ten bucks, and I knew I'd found breakfast.  (For every delicious detail of this menu, which is only part of the menu at this place, click to enlarge.)

Joy.  (Click to enlarge and covet.)

I so enjoyed this.  I ate at least one meal at this little joint -- "Blaz'n Blenders/Coffee Importers Espresso Bar" -- every day for the rest of my trip, completely blissed out every time.  The first time I ate here, though, my meal, or at least my after-meal lingering, was spoiled prematurely.

I was sitting there minding my own business -- okay, not really; really, I was ogling other people's adorable dogs and children, relishing being greeted and smiled at by perfect strangers, and soaking up scenery while sipping the dregs of a 16 oz. beet, carrot, parsley, cucumber, and ginger juice blend and trying to finally finish my excellent, excellent Frida Kahlo book, it of the dense but brilliant prose that had been my train-riding book for the last four years -- when a mom who could have been one of the Morning Momenade because she had the regulation tan, workout clothes, evenly spaced and unremarkable caucasian features, and undistinguishable figure sat down at the table next to me with her little daughter, who looked to be about two-and-a-half, maybe three years old, and one of her own peers.

"No, you can't have one [a smoothie such as the one she'd ordered for herself]," said the young mother to her cute tiny daughter, "because they're very expensive, and you don't need the calories."

She went on:  "Now sit down and listen, because Mommy has things to tell you about your new preschool.  I think you're really going to like it there!  There's no whining.  They don't allow whining.  And also, there's just one thing we're going to have to work on, one thing you're going to need to be able to do in order to go to this school, okay?

"You know when you go poo-poo?  Well, at this school, when you go poo-poo, you're going to have to wipe your own bottom.  They won't do it for you.  So we have to make sure that you can do this by Monday, okay?"

"You should blog this," my true love told me later on the phone.

"Oh, I mean to.  That poor little girl!  She can't be more than three years old and yet already she has to worry about expenses, calories, and now she even has a specific deadline by which she must learn to wipe her own bottom."

"Wow." He was quiet for a minute, then threw this at me:  "I'm not sure how this relates, and this is from 2004 but only because that's the absolutely latest data that's been published, but did you know that suicides among 14-year-old girls in the United States have skyrocketed in number?"

Hmmm.  Just hmmm.

Comments

[elizabeth]

First - what happened to my last two to three weeks - where did I go - glad you are still here.

Second: I used to live in California; I left, my brother moved to a gated community which became famous for proving the jury which gave the "not guilt" verdict in the Rodney King v Police trial and started the LA riots.

Third: What I love about California is just that - you can find anything there that you can imagine - want to play golf at midnight (I did, and there was a course to do it), want to buy books in russian (20,000 book russian bookstore), Communist diners, bars where they serve grass from a blender - Why I left California - a) 800 homicides in one month and b) EVERYONE lives in California - just try to find some time to yourself, anywhere?

Fourth - that poor girl - in the bookstore I worked at there was an entire section for Parents with accelerated children which was all about making your child the best, the smartest, the most advanced, earlier than your neighbors. An ENTIRE SECTION of a bookstore. As staff, we put it right next to the section of masturbation books.

[Sara]

hahahahahaha -- Perfect.

[patry]

Enjoyed your keen observations, as always. I leave satiated on visions of ultrafit mommies with double wide strollers, organically delicious breakfasts, and Frida Kahlo. (Especially Frieda Kahlo.)

[Librarian Girl]

Yikes. I mean really. YIKES. That's all I can say. That poor little girl!

[Sara]

Patry, if you love Frida Kahlo, you MUST read this book. I cannot recommend it highly enough. It is not an easy read, though. There is a ton on every page.

Granola with strawberries and a good detoxifying veggie tonic definitely made everything easier to digest!

LG, yes. Can you imagine? And this all seemed to seem perfectly normal and reasonable to the mom and her friend.

So, yeah, yikes. Many layers of yikes.