The Emperor’s New Clothes

June 26th, 2005

When I was a kid, I wanted to be famous. This is funny to me when I think about it today – since most of you will never actually meet me in real life, it might surprise you to know that I hate being the center of attention, and that I’m the person most likely to try to sneak into a party unnoticed. I’m not socially awkward, or hideous, or painfully shy, I just don’t like being the center of attention – when attention is good, it’s good, but when it’s bad, it’s not so fun. I never want to open myself up for mass criticism of a pile of failures that I chose to execute in public. I tend to fly under the radar. If I were on Survivor, I’d be Amber Brkich the first time around, before she won All Stars.

Anyway, when I was five, I was convinced I was going to be famous – an actress, perhaps. I had my Academy Award speech fully prepped and memorized, and if you really pushed me, I could recite it for you now. And while I certainly never expected that my life would take me where it has, I never thought I would be so thankful that I’m not an actress, or in any way famous. Fame scares me in ways I never thought possible – the perpetual pressure to be thin, (“I eat whatever I want, really! Junk food galore!”), the paparazzi, the constant need to manage your ‘image’ and what not. But what is honestly most terrifying to me is that the prestige and money you gain as a celebrity puts you in a strange position – one that gives you a sense of power over others. And what’s unfortunate is that this very sense of power is why no one tells you when you’re full of shit. No one calls you out on bad behavior and NO ONE tells you you’re wrong.

What an incredibly boring life. I imagine that, more than anything, is what seems to perpeuate a constant state of arrested development – a life of spoiled childhood where your every whim is catered to, and statements like, “I want an Oompa Loopma NOW!” are not completely unheard of and worse, no one tells you to stuff it and quit being a brat. In fact, if Jennifer Lopez screams that she wants an Oompa Loompa, 19 sycophantic assistants probably go trekking off to Loompaville, battling Vermicious Knids to bring her back the one she wants AND her golden goose, too. Who knew that deprivation and delayed gratification were blessings? Have you SEEN Mariah Carey in an interview lately? Or ever? It’s like listening to a 12 year old girl whose daddy has just bought her first pony.

So anyway, I suppose it’s no huge shock that many celebrities desperately try to find meaning in their lives by subscribing to interesting religious principles such as Scientology. Yes, I think a religion founded by a science fiction writer is a bit illogical. I can’t help it. I’m not usually one to judge others’ religious choices or practices, and I feel like a hypocritical ass even bringing this up, but I can’t help but wonder if the unusual and seemingly desperate search for meaning isn’t driven by an incredibly unsatisfied life? I guess searching for meaning is why we all turn to our respective religions, but I think it’s sad when it smacks of desperation, rather than honest faith.

I’ve never been so thankful to have people in my life who love me enough to call me out on my shit. To have to work for things. To have hard choices in life, and things of meaning because I either worked for them or was given them not out of obligation or fear, but out of genuine love.

Today I am thankful for my mundane, ordinary life.

Entry Filed under: Nuttin'