Up until very recently ago, I was under the mistaken assumption that if, as an adult, I was successful, healthy, wealthy and content in my relationships, I would be happy. The past week has proved me wrong. Yes, I would very much like to have success and money and good health and a great life partner and lots of small adopted African and Asian children, but I have decided that this will not be enough. I would like to be famous.
Several things have led me to this conclusion. Last Wednesday, I had the luck to work the red carpet at the Country Music Awards in Nashville. Since I do not like country music, standing for long periods of time, or taking directions from others, I thought this would be a pretty average and not terribly exciting experience where I would briefly glimpse several B-list celebs, snap a few iPhone pics, perhaps get some free shit, and be on my way. Wrong. Working the red carpet, apparently, means you get to actually be on the red carpet. Next to those who are walking down the red carpet, being photographed and interviewed and fawned over. Now, a fan of country music I may not be (Seriously. George Strait, Kenny Chesney, and the Zac Brown Band walked into the awards within one foot of me and had to be pointed out to me by my co-intern, to whom I responded with "who?!"), but when I found myself within approximately 2 feet of Carrie Underwood for a prolonged period of time I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to stroke her perfect blonde curls. As if this wasn't enough, I actually touched Nicole Kidman. I don't particularly like Nicole Kidman--I think she desperately needs to go tanning, or if she's concerned about 'cancer' or something, use a no-side-effects tanning spray, stop getting Botox, and be generally less creepy-looking, but when we briefly grazed hands and exchanged greetings I would have chopped off my left arm, freeze-dried it, and crushed and spoon-fed it to my first born for the opportunity to hang out with her for five more minutes.
Several things have led me to this conclusion. Last Wednesday, I had the luck to work the red carpet at the Country Music Awards in Nashville. Since I do not like country music, standing for long periods of time, or taking directions from others, I thought this would be a pretty average and not terribly exciting experience where I would briefly glimpse several B-list celebs, snap a few iPhone pics, perhaps get some free shit, and be on my way. Wrong. Working the red carpet, apparently, means you get to actually be on the red carpet. Next to those who are walking down the red carpet, being photographed and interviewed and fawned over. Now, a fan of country music I may not be (Seriously. George Strait, Kenny Chesney, and the Zac Brown Band walked into the awards within one foot of me and had to be pointed out to me by my co-intern, to whom I responded with "who?!"), but when I found myself within approximately 2 feet of Carrie Underwood for a prolonged period of time I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to stroke her perfect blonde curls. As if this wasn't enough, I actually touched Nicole Kidman. I don't particularly like Nicole Kidman--I think she desperately needs to go tanning, or if she's concerned about 'cancer' or something, use a no-side-effects tanning spray, stop getting Botox, and be generally less creepy-looking, but when we briefly grazed hands and exchanged greetings I would have chopped off my left arm, freeze-dried it, and crushed and spoon-fed it to my first born for the opportunity to hang out with her for five more minutes.
Hyperboles aside, I spent the following four days excitedly Googling CMA pictures in the hopes that I would appear in the corner of one (fail, but the co-worker who calls me "fashion girl" (I like you, co-worker), did tell me he saw me holding up the red-carpet sign for Reba on C.M.T! What I would give for that to have made it to my TiVo...), and on Saturday night, my lingering thoughts that I would maybe one day like to be famous were confirmed beyond any reasonable doubt. The reason? Jay-Z.
Jay-Z played at Vanderbilt's Memorial Gym this weekend and by the first song, quickly moved onto my list of favorite-concerts-I-have-ever-attended (other contendors: Radiohead in Miami, Regina Spektor in Nashville, N.E.R.D in Nashville, Backstreet Boys Reunion Tour in New York). The man is a performer--to see him live is truly an honor, and to see the effect he has on the crowd is breathtaking. Within ten minutes, my Jewish-white-girl friends were sweaty, screaming song lyrics at the top of their lungs, bopping to the beat and attesting that if the only way they could engage in sexual intercourse with Jay-Z was on stage in front of the crowd of 5000 at that very moment, they would absolutely do it. And I found myself thinking...I want people to say that about me.Not quite that, because it would be creepy and offputting, but I would like people that I don't know to get moderately excited to see me. I'm not striving to be an actor or a singer, or a reality TV star turned actor-singer (although if anyone wants to pitch me a good reality pilot, please don't hesitate for one second), but I'd like to be known. Perhaps in a really good author or cool talk-show personality way. Or a wife of actor/singer/reality star turned actor-singer who uses her husbands' money benevolently to start a scholarship fund for Russian immigrants and makes frequent appearances on Oprah and The Today Show while running her non-profit and casually attending culinary school/submitting weekly columns to New York Magazine. Not that I've given it much though, really.
In other news: I am going home to New York for the first time since August and I am so excited. I am making a brief stop at my friend Megan's house in D.C for the weekend to eat good food, bar-hop around Georgetown, and decide if I would ever want to live there after graduation. I plan to make her tour to me around all of the places I toured in middle school and take many embarassing tourist photographs, and then on Sunday I will re-unite with my one true love: the great NYC. People often ask me why I am so set on not living in New York right after graduation if I love it so much and I've come to start explaining it like so. You know those couples that have been dating forever and are obsessed with each other but decide to break up to see what else is out there and date new people and realize if they are truly right for one another while always secretly harboring the intention to get back together? That's like me and New York. It was wisely pointed out to me that in the case of these couples, one or both halves do tend to find someone they'd rather be with and then months are wasted Facebook stalking and writing angry emails that will never be sent and shooting imaginary poisonous arrows into each other's backs and all sorts of other dramuhhhh....
But lucky for me, New York can't ever break up with me. Only I with it, briefly, for D.C or Chicago or maybe even an extra year in Nash-Vegas, where I will cultivate a short-lived but undoubtedly exciting affair with the lesser city before coming back with open arms and welcoming myself home.
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