I Miss You When I Blink: Essays(61)

It takes letting go of the idea that living right means racking up every honor you can get. It means understanding that success isn’t about nailing every role; it’s about choosing the roles you’ll play and how well you want to play them. It’s about refusing to see yourself as the passive recipient of a life someone else awards you.

The Fashion Police accepted my resignation with grace and good wishes.





I’m Sorry, Mindy Kaling


I’m at an age where I know myself pretty well. There are things I do—I rise early; I floss; I ask for the dessert menu, then give it back, then wish I hadn’t, then stare jealously at the cake on everyone else’s plate. And there are things I do not do—I do not wear scented deodorant; I do not eat celery; I do not drink lukewarm cocktails. Not a lot of surprises here.

One thing I’ve known about myself for a long time is this: I do not bother celebrities. I think people deserve to have privacy, even in public, so I make a point of ignoring famous people when I see them. When I found myself in the cereal aisle of Publix with Elton John (at least I think it was Elton John), I looked down at my box of Honey Bunches of Oats, humming “Tiny Dancer” inside my head until he passed. When I bumped into Anthony Hopkins on a sidewalk in Italy (it was definitely Anthony Hopkins; I’d accidentally wandered into the periphery of a movie set), I kept walking, mostly out of deference and a little bit because I’m still scared of Hannibal Lecter.

And I know—I just know—that when I do this, when I respect the personal space of a famous person, they recognize it and feel grateful. I believe it forms a connection between us that is much more meaningful than the few seconds of contact they might have with some fame-whore holding out an iPhone. And I’ll be honest with you, I’m a little smug about it. When I see someone walk up to Dave Grohl in the produce section at Whole Foods and start freaking out about their lifelong love of the Foo Fighters, I think, amateur. I’ve built this scenario up in my head where I’m the silent, helpful wing-woman of every celebrity I see.

I’ve even imagined how I would treat my favorite celebrities if I ever did run into them. Like, let’s say I’m sitting at a bar, and Oprah walks up to order a drink. Probably a smoothie made of golden beets and angel wings or something.

What could happen is that I walk over to Oprah and yell, OPRAH! and make crazy eyes and put my arms out for a hug.

What really would happen is that I see Oprah. Oprah sees that I see Oprah; but Oprah also sees that I am acting like she is not Oprah, although she knows that I know that she’s Oprah. As excitement ripples through the crowd and bar patrons begin pressing closer around her, going, “Hey, Oprah, it’s you, Oprah!” we exchange a glance. And in that instant, a silent conversation takes place:



* * *



With her eyes, Oprah would say: Everywhere I go, it’s like this.

And my eyes would say: I know. Sorry.

OPRAH:

Thank you. You’re obviously different from the rest. We should be friends.



ME:

We SHOULD be friends. But I’m not going to come over there and give you my phone number, because you’ve already got people pushing paper in your face.



OPRAH:

That’s okay. By virtue of the connection we are making right now, your email address will spell itself in my organic alphabet soup when I have lunch tomorrow, and I will always know how to contact you.



ME:

I’m glad we had this moment.



OPRAH:

Me too. Thank you for respecting me.



ME:

Be well, Oprah. Be well.



(I’ve thought about it a lot.)



* * *



I was in New York for a publishing conference. That evening, a crowd of book people—writers, editors, agents—had arranged themselves among the hanging ferns and tastefully threadbare rugs of the Bowery Hotel terrace at sunset to toast the actress Mindy Kaling’s new memoir. I’d been up since five, having spent the day going from the Javits Convention Center out to Brooklyn bookshops and back again signing copies of my own book, Penguins with People Problems, a slim volume of illustrated humor. Still tucked into my pocket was the flat cartoon penguin character I’d been using as a prop. I smoothed its laminated wings with my thumb as I chatted with a friend and silently admired Arianna Huffington’s shoes.

An hour into the party, Kaling still had not shown, and expectant partygoers were checking their watches and glancing around. I scoffed. Everyone was anxiously fretting over whether they’d get a moment with her, a photo, some souvenir of experience. Not me. Heck, I might even leave.

Then the buzz started: “Mindy’s downstairs! She’s almost here! Mindy! Mindy! Mindy!” Guests jostled for position along the exposed brick wall by the door.

The tension rose and the over-the-shoulder glances grew more anxious. The guest of honor appeared in the doorway; then the tide of humanity lifted her and she was buoyed along the crowd. Within seconds, she landed right in front of me. I stood face-to-face with Mindy Kaling, and this is what I said:

“OH MY GOD, HI MINDY KALING. I LOVE YOUR BOOKS AND YOUR SHOW, MINDY KALING.”

I informed her of her own name. Twice.

Perhaps it was the sudden real-life presence, just inches from my face, of this entertainer I’d long admired that caused my behavioral short circuit. Perhaps I was just tired, and the starstruck atmosphere had infected my weakened system like a virus. Or maybe I sensed in a split second that this was our chance to meet and be friends, but my mouth couldn’t catch up with my brain’s message to say a simple hello and smile. All I know is what happened next: