I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby and didn’t notice anything was wrong. Sure, I saw a few heads turn and then quickly look away, but I didn’t think much of it. It was early and I was still groggy. In the time between waking up and my first sip of coffee, I’m simply going through the motions, barely tolerating life. Where was my friend? Probably out in the cafe. Hopefully, I’d find her sitting at a table with a large carafe of piping hot java along with the flavored nut milk I like so much. At home, I make my own nut milk. But on the road, I give myself permission to indulge in the sugary stuff.

I pushed open the glass door and walked outside. The cool, cloudy morning air made my skin tingle. The cafe was bustling but not with conversation. It was still too early for that. Guests placed orders with servers in hushed tones. The clink, clink of silverware tossed into grey bus trays was louder at this hour then at any other time of day.

I scanned the cafe. A few people looked up at me over their newspapers or tablets but then went back to their morning reading. Two men in untucked linen shirts at a table on the left gave me a full once-over then resumed their conversation, chuckling a bit. People can be so rude.

I noticed a familiar face. But it wasn’t my girlfriend. It was a white haired old woman. Where had I seen her before? Oh yes! She’s the woman from the Rosetta Stone app on her way to le café with her husband. I guess she’s an actress. Maybe she too is working here in LA. I approached her table to say good morning and thank her for the French lessons but was stopped in my tracks by the nasty look she shot me.

I looked down at my body and thought: aww jeez, I forgot to put clothes on. Why didn’t anyone in the lobby tell me I forgot to get dressed? That’s LA for you. In New York, people let you know what’s up. I looked around expecting the see the maître d’ rushing to cover me with his white polyester tuxedo jacket. But no maître d’ appeared. Aside from the Rosetta Stone lady, no one seemed bothered that I was roaming around butt naked. Even she eventually looked away and resumed dipping her toast into the gooey yellow of a sunny side up egg.

Well, I thought, everyone’s already seen me naked. No need to run back to my room in shame. I finished scanning the cafe, saw that my friend wasn’t there, then casually made my way back into the lobby.

As I approached the shiny gold elevator doors and caught a glimpse of my naked reflection, I was hit with a wave of self-consciousness. Oh dear, everyone can see my cellulite! But then my next thought was: whatever! So I’m not perfect. Who is?