It was my brother’s birthday this weekend, he has reached the ripe old age of 26. A number that seems so much older and more mature than the age my brother seems to me. To me he is just my brother, an ageless friend with whom I have a fiercely competitive (we keep a tally score of our games of ‘Speed’. And, yes, we still play ‘Speed’) yet completely supportive relationship (I have written him stories to turn into shorts and he has called production offices to find me a job when I was too scared.) If he’s 26 then that means I’m 23, which can’t be right because I feel like I act exactly as I did when I was 17.
Lately I’ve noticed that I’m having an age identity crisis and I can trace the origin of this crisis back to the 2nd grade when I was reading a book about life… or something. This book had a series of pictures of what you look like and the things you do and achieve at different stages in your life (okay, it was a picture book.) I vividly remember the hand drawn picture of a 20-something year old woman. Her hair rested nicely styled on her shoulders, indicating that the ponytail and pigtails seen in the previous pictures of “teenager” and “child” were long gone. She had a purse that looked like a small briefcase, hanging on one shoulder. She was dressed in a green shirt and long red Bermuda shorts, and the slight heel on her shoes found a classy middle ground between childhood flats and business pumps. Clearly, THIS WAS MATURITY. I regarded this picture fondly and found it not only aspirational but also non-negotiable. This IS what I was going to be like at 20-something. But now being 20-something, I can honestly say there are obvious differences between this “model 20-something year old” and myself.
First of all, I love wearing my hair in a ponytail, especially since I don’t love washing my hair. I bought my first “round brush” a few days ago, a purchase to help me transition into the first stage of womanhood: styled hair. Which reminds me that I need to youtube “how to blow dry hair with round brush” later.
Secondly, I often don’t want to use a purse, and instead choose to juggle my belongings in my hands. This is not helpful when I need my hands to do common chores like pick up things up or open doors. I have to shove my wallet and/or phone into my back pockets or, if wearing gym shorts, slide them in my waistband. Gym shorts. NOT Bermuda shorts, mind you. Very immature.
The difference in shoe preference between the “model 20-something” and myself is not totally by choice. I was cursed with large feet, which leaves me looking for gender neutral shoes. So slight heels are obviously out.
The point I’m trying to make here is that I had an idea, greatly influenced by this picture, of what I would be like at 23. And I am not like that. Sometimes I wonder when I’m going to start identifying with what my elementary school-aged self thought a 20-something year old would be like…
I wonder when I’m going to stop refusing to go out at night without a pregame. I wonder when I’m going to know what information to give if I ever got into a fender bender. A cell phone number seems like too little, and a social security number too much. I wonder when I’m going to accept the fact that people I went to high school with are getting married and having children (probably never. Or when I’m 35.)
But I mostly just want to know when I am going to stop referring to money in Chipotle burritos. I’ll think to myself, do I want to spend 13 dollars on a movie I don’t REALLY want to see? Why, that’s two Chipotle burritos! WITH guacamole. I can only imagine in 20 years explaining that I spent 500 Chipotle burritos on my daughter’s wedding dress. I mean seriously, though… How does money work??
But this is not to say I am jealous of the “model 20-something year old” or that I’ve fallen short. I mean, let’s be real here, I’m much better than that cartoon drawing, stuck on that page and in that book for all eternity. For starters, I’m 3-dimensional.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Stars, they're just like ME. right??
Living in LA I see a lot of celebrities. Not only are they just everywhere, but I have an uncanny ability to identify celebrities from obscure guest spots or hit movies from the mid-90s. Yes that is the troubled teen from “Disturbing Behavior” at the Grove. And yes, that man with dread locks sitting across from me at the coffee shop did have one line in one episode of How I Met Your Mother… three seasons ago.
I see celebrities in so many different places and they come without warning. Like many of you (I’m sure) I assumed an army of paparazzi follows every celebrity around, snapping photos and giving us commoners a heads up to their arrival. But, no. Because there is usually no warning and I see celebrities in some of the most common, public places around, it reminds me that stars really are just like us. Like Ryan Kwanten at Starbucks, enjoying a coffee or Uma Thurman at the Apple Store, dropping an iPad.
I see celebrities in odd couplings, and I have always wondered if a celebrity sees another celebrity walking down the street, but they have never spoken, do they nod hello? Shake hands? Does their shared celebrity, the fact that they (and the rest of the world) recognize each other give them the ability to say hello without cause? I saw Jennifer Love Hewitt and Tyra Banks grab froyo together. I saw Kate Walsh and Angela Kinsey take in an improv show together. Have these women always been friends or did they just arrive at the same place at the same time, instantly bond over their shared fame and decide to enjoy the activity together? I’m not a celebrity and I would never just sit down and have a frozen yogurt with another non-celebrity just because we are in the same shop, but there’s something different about celebrities… I think they could pull it off.
I even see celebrities exactly where one would expect. Ie a disheveled David Hasselhoff atop an electrical box, barefoot, talking on the phone in the middle of Santa Monica.
Everyone has a different reaction to seeing a celebrity. Some ask for autographs, some snap pictures on their cell phones, some point so that no one around them will miss the sighting. I don’t do any of these things. Instead I make direct eye contact with them. For some reason I think this eye contact calms them into knowing I respect their job and we quickly bond over our mutual agreement that fame is just a ridiculous result of an honest days work.
The eye contact says, “we’re cool, buddy,” or “you’re safe here, I understand.” The eye contact has several flaws. 1. I’m sure it is not calming. 2. I am sure no celebrity needs me to telepathically tell them “we’re cool” and 3. I used to think the eye contact I made was by chance. But the more I think about it the more I think I just stare until we inevitably meet eyes. After all, there are only so many things a set of eyes can focus on in a certain amount of time.
I see celebrities in so many different places and they come without warning. Like many of you (I’m sure) I assumed an army of paparazzi follows every celebrity around, snapping photos and giving us commoners a heads up to their arrival. But, no. Because there is usually no warning and I see celebrities in some of the most common, public places around, it reminds me that stars really are just like us. Like Ryan Kwanten at Starbucks, enjoying a coffee or Uma Thurman at the Apple Store, dropping an iPad.
I see celebrities in odd couplings, and I have always wondered if a celebrity sees another celebrity walking down the street, but they have never spoken, do they nod hello? Shake hands? Does their shared celebrity, the fact that they (and the rest of the world) recognize each other give them the ability to say hello without cause? I saw Jennifer Love Hewitt and Tyra Banks grab froyo together. I saw Kate Walsh and Angela Kinsey take in an improv show together. Have these women always been friends or did they just arrive at the same place at the same time, instantly bond over their shared fame and decide to enjoy the activity together? I’m not a celebrity and I would never just sit down and have a frozen yogurt with another non-celebrity just because we are in the same shop, but there’s something different about celebrities… I think they could pull it off.
I even see celebrities exactly where one would expect. Ie a disheveled David Hasselhoff atop an electrical box, barefoot, talking on the phone in the middle of Santa Monica.
Everyone has a different reaction to seeing a celebrity. Some ask for autographs, some snap pictures on their cell phones, some point so that no one around them will miss the sighting. I don’t do any of these things. Instead I make direct eye contact with them. For some reason I think this eye contact calms them into knowing I respect their job and we quickly bond over our mutual agreement that fame is just a ridiculous result of an honest days work.
The eye contact says, “we’re cool, buddy,” or “you’re safe here, I understand.” The eye contact has several flaws. 1. I’m sure it is not calming. 2. I am sure no celebrity needs me to telepathically tell them “we’re cool” and 3. I used to think the eye contact I made was by chance. But the more I think about it the more I think I just stare until we inevitably meet eyes. After all, there are only so many things a set of eyes can focus on in a certain amount of time.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Think About It. For Far Too Long.
I have this problem where I over think hypothetical situations to a detailed and ridiculous extent. I spend so much time playing out a second ending to a given situation that by the time I have mentally worked out the perfect solution, the possibility of the encounter has already passed.
For example, a few days ago, as I was leaving my nannying job I jogged lightly down the concrete porch steps to my car. My foot slipped a little bit but I caught my balance before I fell down completely. Instead of accepting my survival, I played out what would have happened had I not caught myself and, instead, had fallen down the flight of stairs and broken my ankle.
I imagined myself stranded on the driveway unable to walk; what would I do? I don’t have the dad’s cell phone number so I couldn’t call him to help me. I decided I would have to call the mom at work and calmly ask her between choked breaths to please tell her husband to open the front door. But what if the mom didn’t answer? While I debated between dragging myself to the garbage cans alongside the house and hitting them against the wall to attract the attention of the dad inside, I decided that was much too noisy and would wake the sleeping infant I had just put down for a nap. Of course the dad would be mad at me for waking the boy and he would prioritize getting his son back to sleep over getting me to a hospital.
No, that wouldn’t work. I would have to call my brother. But he lives far away so what would I do to pass the time while I waited, unable to move, on the front stoop of my employer’s house? I decided I was lucky that I have internet on my phone and would be able to surf the web, potentially google “broken ankle” while I waited for him. Then, because my alternative endings love to complicate things, the dad would come outside and see me sprawled on the driveway, my mangled ankle drooping to my side as I wait for my ride. And, of course, because I don’t want my pain and clumsiness to be the focus of the conversation I would casually explain myself, “I was going to call and ask you to save me from this agony but I didn’t have your number, so my brother is on the way. Yeah, he doesn’t have a car so he’s taking the bus from Venice. So, yeah, he’ll be here in about 4 hours.”
My desire to not talk about my problems first and foremost is actually the most realistic aspect of this hypothetical situation I’ve created. I always make small talk before announcing my true intentions, news or dilemma. If I call my mom mid-mental breakdown, despite being on the verge of tears, we always have the same opening: “hi, Anna” “Hi, mom” “How are you?” “I’m fine, how are you?” “I’m good, what’s up?” “I’m having a mental breakdown!!!!” Sure the outburst came out of nowhere, but at least I eased her into the reality of the call.
And before I know it I park my car and I'm at my apartment complex, I have just spend 45 minutes reaching a suitable conclusion for a near death experience I did not have. Phew, that was a close one.
Now, along the lines of weird hypothetical situations being played out in my mind. It’s not that I never thought this day would come, but I never thought this day would come so quickly…. I have lived in LA for ONE FULL YEAR. A lot has happened in a year, a lot of really, really boring stuff and some fun, interesting stuff. If you would like to know more about my accomplishments you can google me, or search me on IMDB. Or for much more accurate results you can read my past blog posts.
For example, a few days ago, as I was leaving my nannying job I jogged lightly down the concrete porch steps to my car. My foot slipped a little bit but I caught my balance before I fell down completely. Instead of accepting my survival, I played out what would have happened had I not caught myself and, instead, had fallen down the flight of stairs and broken my ankle.
I imagined myself stranded on the driveway unable to walk; what would I do? I don’t have the dad’s cell phone number so I couldn’t call him to help me. I decided I would have to call the mom at work and calmly ask her between choked breaths to please tell her husband to open the front door. But what if the mom didn’t answer? While I debated between dragging myself to the garbage cans alongside the house and hitting them against the wall to attract the attention of the dad inside, I decided that was much too noisy and would wake the sleeping infant I had just put down for a nap. Of course the dad would be mad at me for waking the boy and he would prioritize getting his son back to sleep over getting me to a hospital.
No, that wouldn’t work. I would have to call my brother. But he lives far away so what would I do to pass the time while I waited, unable to move, on the front stoop of my employer’s house? I decided I was lucky that I have internet on my phone and would be able to surf the web, potentially google “broken ankle” while I waited for him. Then, because my alternative endings love to complicate things, the dad would come outside and see me sprawled on the driveway, my mangled ankle drooping to my side as I wait for my ride. And, of course, because I don’t want my pain and clumsiness to be the focus of the conversation I would casually explain myself, “I was going to call and ask you to save me from this agony but I didn’t have your number, so my brother is on the way. Yeah, he doesn’t have a car so he’s taking the bus from Venice. So, yeah, he’ll be here in about 4 hours.”
My desire to not talk about my problems first and foremost is actually the most realistic aspect of this hypothetical situation I’ve created. I always make small talk before announcing my true intentions, news or dilemma. If I call my mom mid-mental breakdown, despite being on the verge of tears, we always have the same opening: “hi, Anna” “Hi, mom” “How are you?” “I’m fine, how are you?” “I’m good, what’s up?” “I’m having a mental breakdown!!!!” Sure the outburst came out of nowhere, but at least I eased her into the reality of the call.
And before I know it I park my car and I'm at my apartment complex, I have just spend 45 minutes reaching a suitable conclusion for a near death experience I did not have. Phew, that was a close one.
Now, along the lines of weird hypothetical situations being played out in my mind. It’s not that I never thought this day would come, but I never thought this day would come so quickly…. I have lived in LA for ONE FULL YEAR. A lot has happened in a year, a lot of really, really boring stuff and some fun, interesting stuff. If you would like to know more about my accomplishments you can google me, or search me on IMDB. Or for much more accurate results you can read my past blog posts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)