I have a problem. And like most of my problems, I was the last one to know about it. In fact, I had considered this problem an attribute until last Saturday night when I was strolling through the outdoor shopping and dining district of Old Town Pasadena enjoying a fruitful, funny conversation with my companion Anne Hathaway. (Ok, it wasn’t really Anne Hathaway, but since my actual companion wouldn’t appreciate having her name immortalized in this blogumn, I figured I’d pick a pseudonym that could bring in some extra search engine traffic.) It was just after 10pm and suddenly every store front –from quaint coffee shops to high-end wine bars to Yogurtariums– transformed like some brick and mortar werewolf into make-shift night clubs with obligatory velvet ropes and roided-up door men hairier than Cerberus. Turning onto a slightly more quiet side street, Anne Hathaway and I passed two women in their early 20s who were squeezed into club wear of such suffocating tightness that their female forms resembled nothing less than two freshly fed pythons. As I watched them wobbling forth in their sky-scraper heels like sailors after seven years at sea, I quickly concocted twin backstories featuring a whistle stop tour of heartbreaks, disappointments and diminished expectations. “I feel bad for them. They seem just so desperate to impress,” I said in a tone of genuine pity as opposed to my usual snark attack. “That’s really judgmental. How do you know they’re desperate and sad?”  Anne Hathaway snapped back. In an effort to save face, I mumbled something to Anne Hathaway about how she was right and then asked her to reveal some plot spoilers from The Dark Knight Rises (Ka-ching! – Take that Google!) And that is how I learned about my problem: ...