Saturday, October 06, 2007
Almost Famous
It seems laughable to me now, but as a kid, I wanted to be famous. I didn't contemplate some of the nastier realities of fame, like gossip columns and papparazzi and slanted or sensationalistic media coverage. I just wanted to feel important. I wanted to be seen and known and remembered.
For a long time, I channeled my hunger for external validation into professional success. I got a rush out of appearing in newspaper articles. I enjoyed being asked to speak at professional conferences. I was proud of being promoted to Senior Vice President. But I was deeply dissatisfied with the overall trajectory of my life. When Max was born, I was eager to walk away.
On Labor Day, we attended the annual celebration at the country club. A Texas gullywasher had reduced what would have been a throng of revelers to mere handfuls. Which is why we went to the club. We had the place to ourselves. The face painter drew fanciful animals on both cheeks of each boy. The clown stalked them, making balloon characters upon request. When the photographer asked to snap our picture, we obliged.
And that's how our smiling faces wound up in the club newsletter. We are not the kind of people who ordinarily appear in its glossy pages. We do not attend the debutante ball or the fashion show or the member/guest golf tournament. But there were fewer than twenty people at the Labor Day party. Who else were they going to show?
I'm kneeling between the boys, relaxed and content. Max looks directly into the camera, a silly, artificial smile splitting his freckled face. Boo glances shyly to the side. Just a mom and her kids, looking astonishingly like themselves in every way.
This afternoon, Max stumbled across the picture lying on the coffee table. He studied it proudly.
"We're famous!," he shouted.
If the only thing for which I'm ever known is being Max and Boo's mom, that is fame enough for me.
For a long time, I channeled my hunger for external validation into professional success. I got a rush out of appearing in newspaper articles. I enjoyed being asked to speak at professional conferences. I was proud of being promoted to Senior Vice President. But I was deeply dissatisfied with the overall trajectory of my life. When Max was born, I was eager to walk away.
On Labor Day, we attended the annual celebration at the country club. A Texas gullywasher had reduced what would have been a throng of revelers to mere handfuls. Which is why we went to the club. We had the place to ourselves. The face painter drew fanciful animals on both cheeks of each boy. The clown stalked them, making balloon characters upon request. When the photographer asked to snap our picture, we obliged.
And that's how our smiling faces wound up in the club newsletter. We are not the kind of people who ordinarily appear in its glossy pages. We do not attend the debutante ball or the fashion show or the member/guest golf tournament. But there were fewer than twenty people at the Labor Day party. Who else were they going to show?
I'm kneeling between the boys, relaxed and content. Max looks directly into the camera, a silly, artificial smile splitting his freckled face. Boo glances shyly to the side. Just a mom and her kids, looking astonishingly like themselves in every way.
This afternoon, Max stumbled across the picture lying on the coffee table. He studied it proudly.
"We're famous!," he shouted.
If the only thing for which I'm ever known is being Max and Boo's mom, that is fame enough for me.
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