I stood in the dressing room, tags dangling off the hip of the pants and I knew the day had come, a day every woman dreads. The day you are forced to ask yourself: "Am I too old for these?"

This moment was quickly followed by several glasses of champagne just to take the sting out of it. If I'd had something stronger, I'd have taken that, too.

The pants in question, rather than zipping or buttoning, laced up the fly. I know. I know. But the rear view worked. And ladies, I know you understand, when your butt looks good in something, you buy it. No questions asked. They could be made of burlap. They could have little duckies embroidered up the leg. They could be neon pink. Doesn't matter. It is all about the butt.

Except.

It cannot be avoided. I am kissing 30. And at some point, you just can't lace up your pants. Well, you can except you have to move to a trailer park and start smoking Pall Malls. And that's a mental image that doesn't help things. The one place you do not want to be facing a personal identity crisis is under yellow neon lighting, half naked behind a curtain that doesn't really close all the way. Trust me.

I hemmed. I hawed. In the end, I bought the pants. It's L.A. The rules are different here, right?