Maybe it’s just the time of year. It’s Christmas, I’m alone, and my social prospects are nonexistent. This is the season to be somewhere else and, for the majority of my friends, that means packing up the kids and maybe a few of their best friends and migrating to second homes in Maui, Aspen, Cabo, Sun Valley and the second tier, Palm Springs and Las Vegas.
Being in West L.A. in December is like being banished to an isolated retreat or even a rehab center where parties and other forms of merriment are verboten. Not that I’m complaining. If you come from the east, the weather here in December is glorious. Right up until the El Niño rains in late January and February, the world is temperate, mild and forgiving. Natural disasters like fires, floods, landslides and earthquakes don’t happen in West LA.
This year I have no plans to go anywhere and I am occasionally nagged by that insidious feeling of “missing out.” When I was with Palmer, we used to go to the Four Seasons in Maui every year. We’d get the corner suite and even bribe a beachboy to reserve our lounges every day to avoid getting up at five a.m. like everyone else. (In truth, most of our friends just had their nannies do it.) Now I hear Palmer is going to St. Barts. He thinks it’s “younger, hipper and more fun,” unlike being with me. I used to sit by the pool in the shade and read all day.