Things Are Going Great
Fantasies of a visible life.
I stayed home from school for two reasons: to avoid classes and to watch Ellen. Sometimes, I’d actually be sick, but the ratio of feigned illness to legitimate physical despair swung very much towards the former. Aside from the usual perks of a sick day — sleeping in, having extra time to study for exams, prolonging deadlines — being able to watch Ellen allowed me to indulge in a fantasy world where I was notable enough to dance my way onto a soundstage and talk to a very pleasant lesbian for a solid 5 minutes of manufactured chit chat. I’d imagine my outfit — tidy, au courant but classic, definitely something supplied by wardrobe because I’d be one of those celebrities that stayed under the radar in the $30 jeans a crazy man once told me looked cheap, and a XL t-shirt I got for free from that time I volunteered at a book festival.
Ellen and I wouldn’t play a game. At least not the first time. She’d want to spend all five minutes of the segment talking to me about my project (the title and medium changed depending on the day) and she’d bemoan the fact that she technically needed to bring on the next guest, but did the audience really want to see Jake Gyllenhaal? The audience did not.
Ellen would cut to commercial and we’d share a few moments of private laughter until she stopped me mid-story to slip in an invite to her and Portia’s small brunch get-together in honor of their anniversary. Nothing formal, just close friends and family. Of course I’d be honored to attend but wouldn’t want to intrude. Are you sure it’s okay with Portia? Well alright, I’ll see you Sunday!
I’d be shuttled offstage before the end of the break.
There’s a poem by Marianne Williamson where she writes, “We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Who am I not to appear on whatever talk show or podcast I want because my power is limitless” or something like that.
I no longer fantasize about Ellen. Not having a TV has taken her off my radar. Now it’s guesting on NPR.
Terry Gross will penetrate my sanity in a way no therapist has ever done. She’ll start with asking about how having psychiatrists as parents impacted my youth which is a terribly easy question but then she’ll surprise me with some obscure fact she must have gotten through an acquaintance of a family member and I’ll ask to phone a friend. Or Beyoncé. Send an SOS Snapchat to Oprah. Our conversation (Mine and Terry’s, not mine and Oprah’s) will stay on the iTunes podcast charts for weeks. It’ll be shared on Twitter and Facebook. Not just through the Manischewitz grapevine of my parents’ temple friends. Actual non-Jews will listen. My (book/movie/tv show/stand up special/8 hour long documentary series on Ken Burns featuring pictures of baby Burns fading in and out of view with narration by Tom Hanks) will get shoutouts on my favorite female-run podcasts and I’ll be invited into the inner circles of audio entertainment. I’ll win the title of “Friend of the Show.” I’ll get comp tickets to indie concerts that normally would cost $10 plus a two drink minimum. I’d still pay for the drinks, but I’d save $10. I’d even get a bumper sticker with the band’s logo!
Then someone famous will call me a literary darling. Feminists will get furious on my behalf, calling the term sexist and infantilizing. Think pieces everywhere. A term that never bothered me because I never cared enough to think about it will become the subject of my Times op-ed. The one that gets the trolls all riled up. They’ll take to Twitter to vanquish what some have dubbed the voice of her generation after Lena Dunham and a few others, and I’ll have to fight back or delete my account. They’ll be furious Facebook posts discussing the hate. All the emojis. People pressing “angry face” in response. Then there’ll be backlash about the anger because I’m a cis-gendered, privileged white girl and my problems aren’t problems.
A week will pass. People will post about other online fury. My name will fade from the zeitgeist. The issue of Entertainment Weekly with my tiny likeness on the bullseye will be torn and splotchy with finger oils sitting in the garbage at some hair salons.
I’ll disappear.
But it’s okay.
Because after all of that, I’ll finally feel like I matter.
*****
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