A memory prompt written for “Creative Clusterfuck,” a memoir-focused writing seminar taught by the legendary Molly Guy.
Before college I naively thought I had to isolate one thing to do for the rest of my life as if we had to arrive on campus with a major in mind then a game plan of how to execute it. Mine was to become the next Giuliana Rancic from E! News. I literally wrote my college essay about her being a woman I admired. And why may you ask? Because she was rubbing elbows with celebrities. For as long as I can remember I’ve been a pop culture junkie so it just made sense to me. I envisioned a fantasy world where I vacationed with Julia Roberts and paparazzi followed me around and I went to lavish parties in the hills hosted by Leonardo. My dad only perpetuated the obsession because he was the same way. Whenever he wanted to gossip he’d speak lower like they were going to hear us and say, “did you hear what happened last week on Kardashians?”
I interned at The Oscars my freshman year in college (weird flex, I know) and thought it was going to be like looking into a crystal ball for my future. I saw Giuliana and was completely underwhelmed. She was frantically going over her notes (that an intern probably researched and typed up for her) and was anxiously reliant on a teleprompter. It was all a gimmick. She didn’t know jack shit about who was stepping up next to tell her who they were wearing. I could have done her job for her because I dedicated my free time to remembering useless cinematic statistics like it was a sport. This was THE OSCARS, you better bring your A-game. I knew the nominees, the films, the scores, and the dates on their arms.
I was whispering the names of each person who exited their limos to my Associated Press producers. I was close enough to smell Bradley Cooper’s breath and all I thought was, “you look so old in person.” I was in shock, waiting for this big thing to happen to me, waiting for my life to change after seeing everyone I’d grown up watching on TV. That shock didn’t turn to disappointment until my plane ride back to miserable upstate New York when I realized I may never be on that red carpet again because I didn’t want to be her anymore. I was more than a floating head whose only talent is an ability to read moving words, paint on a fake smile, wave and say, “I just LOVED you in American Sniper, Bradley!”