Becoming a celebrity is not something you achieve. It's an honor, a title, a blessing and a curse, bestowed upon you by others. Not everyone who is famous is a celebrity. In fact, most are not. For example: the Rolling Stones are famous. Mick Jagger is a celebrity. What makes a celebrity a celebrity is the mercurial "it" factor. No one I've ever asked has been able to define exactly what that means, they just know "it" when they see it.
Have you wondered what it would be like to be a celebrity? Jet setting around the world. On the "A" list. Smothered with love and adoration (sigh).
If you're a writer, artist, singer, actor, or sports star or involved with media, you're closer to recognition than you think. But as the saying goes, be careful what you pray for, you may get it. There is a dark side. One that
we create when we elevate strangers to a position greater than their gifts. SPOILER ALERT:
Everyone struggles with making sense of this complicated world in which we live. A celebrity is no closer to the truth than you or I and if, because of your talent, you become a celebrity, I pray you use your power and responsibility with compassion and wisdom to help the less fortunate.
A number of years ago when I was working in media, part of my job was attending rock concerts. Loved it. L-O-V-E-D it! Not only did I have a chance to hear amazing concerts but attended some of the best parties. These were gifted movers and shakers: Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young (and their pet rabbit, Late); Paul Revere and the Raiders; Janis Joplin; and Santana; to name a few.
I was standing back stage one night when a concert ended. The men in the band sprinted for the exits as the instruments they laid on the stage floor rang out the last note. One of the guitarists grabbed my hand and shouted, "Come on!"
We ran down two flights of back stairs to a waiting limo. The Sullivan Theatre in downtown Chicago is an impressive, city-block-long, brick building. At the far end of the alley, a mass of bobbing heads quickly approached the car. "Get in. GET IN," shouted the driver.
The band jumped in, jockeying for leg room. The driver locked the doors and slowly pulled forward. At that moment, the first wave of star-struck teens swarmed the car. I remember a pretty, young girl (couldn't be more than fourteen) threw herself against the limo. Her tears stained the car window as she screamed the name of the lead singer. Her look quickly turned to panic as the mob crushed her against the car. Somehow, the driver made it through and I saw the girl still waving and sobbing as we zoomed into city traffic.
I thought about that long ago incident while I was on a research trip to Anacortes, Washington recently. What would I do if I were followed by the paparazzi? I laughed and groaned for being so silly and slid my card/key into the motel door while balancing a three-sectioned Styrofoam box containing left-over salad and prime rib. The treat slid snugly into the fridge and I settled in with copious notes from a day of research. It was going to be a long night and an early morning.
Sunday morning was spectacular; sunny and warm. Mass had just ended and I had twenty minutes before I met a friend and joined her for her church service . . . "Mass in the Grass," they called it. I headed back to the motel to change my clothes and finish the left-over prime rib.
My lower jaw had been tender this week. Dental work (finished the day before I flew across the continent). The need for tweaking my million dollar smile caused excruciating pain with every bite I took. I gladly removed the new partial and placed it in the empty section of the container.
Left overs can be as enjoyable as the initial dinner if you have fond memories of spending the meal with friends or loved ones. A quick look at my watch told me I was going to be late. I closed the lid on the box and threw it in the waste basket. Made a cursory sweep of the room and left.
It was great sitting next to Linda, after all these years; our voices blending on a familiar hymn. We hadn't done that since we were kids in junior choir. It was as though the world had rewound to a simpler time when all we had to worry about was . . . actually, nothing. It was summer.
I felt so alive! Even my jaw didn't hurt. An uncontrollable gasp rolled off my lips. MY TEETH!!! I shouted in a stage whisper in my friend's ear and ran from the gathering as though the devil asked me to dance.
The five minute car ride felt like an hour. When I flung the room door open, I saw what I feared most. The room was spotless! Bed made. Trash gone. Teeth, as well.
I was numb. "Now what, Ollie?" I asked myself as I tried to keep my thoughts under control. I opened the door a crack and saw the housekeepers cart two rooms away. A large, clear bag filled with used tissues and spent food wrappers hung from the side. 'Oh, I can't do this,' I thought, my stomach doing barrel rolls. 'You have to or explain a fifteen hundred dollar loss to your sweet hubby,' my alter ego whispered.
I looked down the walkways; no one around. Took a deep breath and pushed my hand into the partially filled bag. A smile crossed my face as my hand slid down the side of a Styrofoam box. I prayed it was mine as I opened the lid and jumped up and down when I saw my teeth.
"Thank you," I said as I looked toward heaven and then flushed as my eyes met those of a man on the second floor balcony. I quickly turned (with box in hand), hung my head to hide the fact that I was laughing hysterically, and smiled, grateful that I am not a celebrity.
To learn more about award-winning author, Jo Ann V. Glim:
