Truth : I'm not 'California Cool.'

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Jeff and I moved to Southern California at the end of April. He is working for his dad and I...well, I don't have a job. It's true. I only actually know how to get to three places : the beach, Sonic, and Target (...sometimes. I was hopelessly and gloriously lost today on my way back from Target and asked a lady to give me some directions who almost cried with relief that I wasn't about to mug her. Apparently following someone going 5 MPH and aggressively shouting, 'Hey! You!' is frightening?). I'm a Real Housewife of Orange County except I don't have kids. Or a house. Or perky boobs.

But I love it here. Oh, do I love it.
We are living in an apartment in his parents' house...eventually. Currently it is being occupied by his brother + cute family and so we are living in a bedroom. If you are wondering, it has really amped up our love life -- I feel like a high school bad girl, sneaking into my flame's parents' house at night to canoodle and watch ANTM marathons and other some such things. It's thrilling. And wonderful. And I am actually not kidding. Plus, his mom makes us dinner nearly every night and we get free access to their fridge (I think. Come to think of it, this really hasn't been established yet. Ha.). Live-in girlfriend, for life!

The only thing I don't love : how glaringly obvious it has become that I am far from California Cool. Yes, capitalized and yes, it's a thing. I don't know how people do it here -- they somehow manage to make everything look so easy and effortless and breezy. They are the anti-thesis of Brooke Stapleton, essentially. I take about fifteen outfit changes and a heavy mist of dry shampoo to look presentable and even then I am one gust of wind away from looking completely insane.

I feel like my lack of coolness is most exposed at the beach; I'm so vulnerable there! I can hardly walk in the sand and am hyper-sensitive to the salty water and to top it off, I'm wearing a swimsuit. Eek. It's as if I radiate 'I am not from around here' every time I step foot on T-Street with my Tommy Bahama beach chair and ungodly amount of Diet Coke in tow. Just a few days ago, I decided to try my hand at running on the beach. In my mind, I was just a bright colored pair of spandex and a medium-support sports bra away from being like the sun-kissed, gazelle-like women I see running up and down (and up and down, and up and down...) the shore all day long. Is there like a manual to that crap?! Within five minutes, the bottom half of my body was soaked and my shoes were filled with tiny bits of sand resulting in them weighing upwards of five thousand pounds. Maybe I'll just stick to lounging.

I suppose I just wasn't born with the 'cool gene.' The gene that helps you refrain from thanking people for letting you borrow a tampon by pointing to your ...girlies... and shouting, 'We are in business!' when you make eye contact outside the bathroom (...not a proud moment) and veers you away from ridiculous beach headwear. I just ain't California Cool, people. In fact, I think I am already disqualified from being 'California Cool' forever because I call it 'California Cool.'

It's fine.

I'm fine.

And I'm blogging, hey!