Like billions of other humans, I’ve been watching the Olympic coverage and being increasingly mystified about the ethics of changing the order of some events, omitting others and delaying the coverage to the point that the results have been known for six hours. I guess I should not be surprised that the “suits” are trying to create some kind of “story arc” that better sells laundry soap. Nothing about show business surprises me… except how naive I was about it when I first landed in NYC.
“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” I murmured to myself seductively as I stood by the carousel at JFK airport. A man in a turban looked at me funny.
“Hi,” I waved, trying to be friendly. I was Australian so I had to be friendly. It was in the Constitution.
But I was good-golly-let-me-overshare-to-everyone-I-meet friendly, and this had nothing to do with my nationality, upbringing or even, it seemed, genetics. My extroversion came with me from the womb, and sadly it appears to be terminal.
I came into the world with a soul longing for attention. I approached random strangers in the park regaling them with stories about my life I was sure they would find fascinating. I can only imagine how unwelcoming those Soviet faces were, possibly freezing in mid-winter, to be subjected to endless high-pitched chatter from which they couldn’t escape. That shit is only cute for so long…
Nothing has changed. On a daily basis I am as lonely as lonely can be, and shocked that no amount of attention paid to me is enough. Men, women, children, animals – I need everyone to look, listen and most of all SEE me. I believe that even if I was able to perform in a stadium around the clock, telecast live on TV to everyone that lives, I would likely still need a hug. It is a bottomless need, this obsession to be noticed, and it shows no sign of going away. Sometimes I think the twelve step groups only make it worse, as I spend the entire time planning what I’m going to share.
It’s a miracle that I never became a stripper. If only I could strip with my clothes on… oh yeah, that’s stand-up comedy, and I’ve already done that. And left it in order to focus on the “fulfillment” of motherhood.
My two sons often tune me out. I read somewhere that men can only hear the first and last word out of seven, so this shouldn’t surprise me. Add to the fact that they are often consumed with either Plants vs. Zombies, Regular Show or some other new data from what I grew up believing was “real life.” Of course, this was in the before the advent of quite this many personal devices on which to gulp down megabytes at a frightening rate. The only personal device I ever thought I would need… well, anyway, even that’s digitized now.
As for my husband… although he insists that he still loves me, and even more than when we first met, I am skeptical. I mean wouldn’t someone who adores you that much be able to retain certain salient pieces of information about you – your likes and dislikes for example, or how you like your tea or even hypothetically be able to read and respond to your ever-shifting sexual wants and needs? Mmmm, probably not.
Celebrity divorce is a perfect example of how difficult it is to stay interested in one person, even one whom the majority of humans find endlessly beautiful/funny/fascinating. And only a woman could contemplate while watching Michael Phelps in the pool, whether he’s dating anyone, and who that would be…
Which is how I came across this image, which in my mind says it all. I mean the woman is wearing a CROWN for God’s sake, she has spent a year serving a charity and being the role model of millions, and yet her boyfriend REALLY needs to check his email right now…:
Needless to say, this woman is now Michael Phelps’ ex-girlfriend. The greatest Olympian of all time? Definitely.
For Most Attentive Boyfriend – he didn’t even place.