It has been raining for over a week now. As an attempt to remedy my cabin fever, I decide to venture out to the Natural Café for some quality I’m-going-to-do-something today time. As I wait for my “Old Town” salad, I gaze out across the landscape of retail suicide and come to a realization – this is not the State Street I grew up on.

I was raised on State Street. I was two-days old when my mom opened “Swept Away,” an eclectic women’s clothing store. I spent more time there than I did in my own house. State Street was my backyard.

Some people might cringe and criticize the idea of raising a child in such an environment, but I loved it! I knew every storeowner on the strip. I slipped behind glass storefront windows and modeled the latest fashions. You may even remember me running barefoot through Piccadilly Square clad in red boas and silk kimonos.

I was imaginative and eccentric, and State Street catered to my individuality.

Independent boutiques lined the street, each one offering something new, something different. Something that really made you feel like, well, you.

I would sit atop plywood store counters and just daydream about the women perusing about. About everyone in search of that perfect item, the one that nearly speaks to you, seduces you – the one that makes you feel a bit more sure of your step.

I would watch blues and greens sparkle against ocean-colored eyes. In our store, these women found that piece of them that had gone missing. Sexy, confident, sophisticated, laid back. Women could reinvent themselves in just one afternoon, or reconnect with their inner selves.

That was a long time ago, though – pre-Paseo. The girls who own this town now have no idea just how cool it was.

Today, girls have labels from head-to-toe. “Juicy” girls and “Lucky” girls sip iced mochas while parading down Santa Barbara’s catwalk of retail monotony.

You know who I’m talking about, these girls whose hair never falls out of place and who worship to the Queen Bee of the catwalk herself, Miss Jill Johnson, aka Bunny Jackson.

Skyrocketing rents have forced nearly every boutique to its knees in this town. Gone are the days when you could purchase an item and know you and a small handful of other people would be the only ones in town to own it.

Ironically, individuality appears to be a luxury.

Amidst the company of my small side salad, I feel impassioned, enraged. I feel like marching down to city hall and demanding to know why we are becoming a clone of Santa Monica’s 3rd Street Promenade.

Before you know it, we won’t even be able to drive down State Street anymore.

But, right as I am ready to start a rally against corporate America and urban planning, it begins to rain again. I am silenced by the sounds of opening umbrellas and hurried galoshes squeaking in unison across the floor.

So, for today, I silently wave the white flag and accept the fact that corporate America has invaded my backyard.

But tomorrow, you may just catch me leading a rally down State Street. I’ll be decked out in PJ’s, a tutu and, of course, a striking red boa.