I have never been on television. I have decided, however, if I ever find myself in front of a television camera, I will end my interview with, “This isn’t going to be on in Detroit, is it? Because I have warrants in Detroit…”
There is a lot to be said for anonymity. Just ask the serial killers whose neighbors said on the six o’clock news, “He was the quiet type, always kept to himself.” Had these murderous types been “people persons” and showed up all braggy at the homeowners association meetings, they would have been caught a lot earlier in the game.
While I am definitely not an introvert, and I admittedly do like my share of attention from people in my piece of the universe, I do tend to get weirded out when I am directly in the middle of anything. Arguments, controversy, dodge ball games, awards ceremonies, photographs. I want to be an “it” girl, but only for a moment, because when your time as an “it” girl lasts too long, you risk becoming “that” girl.
I missed a golden opportunity back in the 80’s. I would have made an excellent One-Hit-Wonder. I was skinny, I had huge hair, and I could dance. I had a lousy voice, but since Video Killed The Radio Star, who cared? No one could sing in the 80’s, but it was inconsequential if you had a gimmick. One good gimmick and zero talent could get you a record deal and millions of dollars. Don’t believe me? Three words. Men Without Hats.*
One hit and a million bucks later, I could be where I am right now, a broke Catholic school teacher, but with a better retirement plan. I would never need to make a comeback attempt by being on a crappy reality show, because as aforementioned, I only want a little fame and then to recede into relative anonymity. Cash for emergencies, but no stalkers.
Maybe my fear of heights (literally and metaphorically) is really a fear of falling. A “bigger they are, the harder they fall” kind of thing. It’s great to have your face on the cover of People Magazine, until your face is on the cover of People Magazine with the headline, “Tragic Ending.”
I wouldn’t mind writing a book someday, but only one. Margaret Mitchell only wrote one, and things turned out okay for her, I think. Who knows? What I do know is that she didn’t end up dead in a hot tub at the Beverly Hilton. And that’s a goal worthy of aspiring toward.
*Oh. Totally lying. I love Men Without Hats.