Life as a mega-famous local columnist can often be grueling. I know I'm an incomprehensibly sexy and beloved public figure, but can I not get just ONE moment of peace and serenity in my glamorous life? Oh, what I wouldn't give to walk down the street without being chased by paparazzi, autograph hounds, and stalkers screaming their daily marriage proposals and devotions. I'm sure the mere sight of me must leave you normies in a state of awe and wonder, but I promise you that beneath all my celebrity pomp and elegance, I'm just a regular joe. Fame and adoration just come with the territory -- it's the burden of being me.
Orrrrrr maybe not. At best, I'm about as famous as that dog at the end of your block who barks too loud, and I'm pretty much okay with that. Based on the occasional interactions I've had with readers out in the wild, I'd make a lousy famous person.
Don't get me wrong, I love meeting readers. I still find it insanely weird that I even have readers, let alone ones that would ever want to meet me. I feel bad for those folks, though, because it's almost a certainty that I'm a huge let-down. In person, I'm not especially charming or witty. Unless you hand me a pen and paper and give me a half hour or so, I'm not full of comic hijinks. I'm terrible at small talk. If you've ever met me in person and I held eye contact with you for more than a second, take that as a win. I'm the whole package, provided the package you ordered is both awkward and off-putting.
But for a few minutes last week, I felt next-level famous.
I'd spent the afternoon running some annoying but necessary errands that I was in no mood for. Being good and responsible sucks -- so I decided to treat myself with a deliciously unhealthy dinner as a finale. It was there, in line at the fast food joint, that I spotted them. Or, rather, they spotted ME. A couple walked in, made eye contact with me, and immediately lit up.
"Wow," I thought to myself, "they must be fans of my column." Maybe I was just imagining it, so I looked back. Nope, they were definitely pointing and whispering and staring at me. These were big fans. We were on opposite ends of the line by this point, so I couldn't really communicate with them. Besides, Captain Awkward, what would you say if you could? "Yep, it's me. I'm him -- that guy who writes about cats too much. Great to meet you. Fancy an autograph? I have some 8x10's in the car!"
But it WAS kind of awkward, because they were definitely staring at me. I figured my best move was to make a subtle gesture of acknowledgement. I was aiming for some kind of head-nod / cheeky-grin combo that would clearly say, "Hey, I appreciate you reading my column and being a supporter. You're aces in my book." That's the gesture I was going for. I'm pretty sure the gesture I ended up making looked more like, "Hey, there are ants in my pants and for some reason I'm smiling about it. Watch out, I might follow you home!"
When I looked back, both of them had phones in hand and were now clearly taking pictures of me. That's officially weird, right? Suddenly I became the most self-conscious person in the restaurant. How should I be standing? Do I have a dorky expression on my face? Please tell that my fly's buttoned.
It was mostly awkward, but maybe a little flattering? I'm pretty sure I floated home from the restaurant on an ego high. Am I camera-famous all of a sudden? IS THIS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE TAYLOR SWIFT? Then I got home, took two paces into the house, stopped, and went, "Eww!"
There, on the second step to my upstairs loft, was a giant pile of vomit. Gross, but as a cat owner, it often comes with the territory. I did wonder, however, why it was so spread out and extra disgusting.
Every morning, I take a shower, get dressed, head into the living room, and put on shoes. How do I put on those shoes, you might ask? Why, by sitting on the second step to my upstairs loft, of course. And do you think on that morning that I paid close attention to that step? Nope. Was the vomit spread out and extra disgusting because I'd sat in it hours earlier? Perhaps. Was I wearing tan slacks and unknowingly wandering around with puke smeared all over my butt? Yep. Did I just run an entire afternoon of errands with what looked like poo hanging off my pants? Most definitely.
Was my fanclub at the restaurant taking pictures of Shane, their favorite newspaper columnist? Or were they taking pictures of some random fat guy grinning maniacally at them while wearing poo-pants? I have a feeling I know the answer. Frankly, I'm just glad I have ANY kind of feeling, because it's clear that I must have a numb butt to have not noticed sitting in a pile of puke.
I wonder what it's like to be famous. After this week, I don't think I want to know. Knowing my luck, if I ever achieve fame, it won't be from doing anything cool. I'm just praying it won't be from becoming Mr. Viral Poopy-Pants. Keep your fingers crossed and your browsers closed.
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