The end of September marked my one month anniversary of writing for Crushable. It has been the time of my life! I’ve written more than I ever have in my college and high school career combined – and actually enjoyed it. I’m proud and excited that I finally found something that I love doing. But my new found confidence and comfort in my job is nothing compared to the intense pride my parents feel. I’m actually doing something that isn’t retail or Starbucks (there, I said it, I worked at Starbucks).
When people ask them how I’m doing in New York, they finally have something remotely interesting to tell them. When my mom found my articles by looking me up on (as my dad calls it) “The Google”, he practically went into cardiac arrest. But when he asked me if I thought I’d need a business suit for interviews, I realized my parents weren’t just gushing over the premiere achievements of their chronically underachieving daughter. They were terribly, terribly confused: my parents think I’m famous.
At first I was going to stage a phone intervention and tell them that I am not, in fact, a celebrity. I’m a mere intern and a part-time student, there is nothing famous about that. But what kind of child would I be if I burst their bubbles of hope? And – not to be selfish - but the perks were unbelievable. It’s amazing what your parents think you need when you’re famous! For the first time they actually understood that when you’re important, cab fare and money for coffee every morning is not just a frivolous expense but a necessity - celebs are always on-the-go. And wouldn’t I need new clothes so that if the paparazzi ever caught me coming out of my house in the morning I wouldn’t look like a corpse? Of course, the paparazzi never comes to East Williamsburg because no one famous has to live in East Williamsburg…but they don’t know that.
For a while, myself and I were the happiest pseudo-celebrity couple in all of Brooklyn. But, as all Hollywood relationships do, my relationship with my famous self lost its shine when I remembered one tiny thing: I am not famous. My name still takes a while to find on “The Google” and my google images are still random people I don’t know. I still have to take the subway. I still tell the Starbucks people that my coffee is a refill so that I only have to pay 54 cents.
When I went home to visit I was flooded with questions about my new life. I stalled for time by telling them stories they’d already heard while I thought up new famous sounding things to tell them. After about ten minutes of sounding like a pretentious joke, I had to come clean. I explained to them that if I was famous, I would have been on the red carpet, not standing behind red velvet ropes and shouting questions hoping to be heard by the real celebs. After several explanations of my daily life, they began to form an idea of what my actual life was like: lots of pasta eating and subway turnstile hopping, for example. Being the greatest parents ever, they told me that it was ok, they love me just the way I am and they are still so proud of what I’m doing. They still will read my blogs everyday and call me to talk about ones that others have written on Crushable. It was a bittersweet loss and I’ll miss it, being fake famous definitely had it’s pros. But if fame is just a state of mind, then who knows? I could be fake famous again sometime very soon.