It’s amazing in L.A., how often the very early morning brings clarity. It’s true. The low angle of the sun, the freshly brewed coffee, the smell of moist earth and eucalyptus after the sprinklers had gone off. In my gullible twenties — after the birth of my son — it came to my attention that my husband was in the midst of inviting a succession of long legged lady-girls out to restaurants while I let my ends split and my waist expand. I assumed, no, let’s say I trusted, that my husband was engaged in an innocent round of PR and that the parade of beauties would recede when I was able to get back to the gym. Actors? Attention sucking vacuums? Now, really…
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