I was recently reading one of my beloved
People magazines [yes, I said beloved, and I’m not ashamed (much) to admit that I love seeing what Jennifer’s wearing and what Chelsea’s gown looked like and how well Lindsay’s “ankle bracelet” matches the circles under her eyes] when it suddenly hit me that I probably wasn’t ever going to star in a movie.
I always thought I would. I mean,
really.
After all, I starred in my second grade play as the sun, and although I didn’t have many lines, the whole play did revolve around me [ba-dump bump].
In middle school I was one of the (many) maidens who stood along the scenery in
Robin Hood. I don’t remember much about that except that I wore my new braided clogs under my maiden dress and they looked awesome.
Years passed, and I was too shy to try out for the high school plays (although I did play the slide whistle in our high school’s production of
Godspell). But at church, I was an angel in our youth group’s play. I was in heavenly administration and sat at a desk and judged the people coming to see me for entrance into heaven. (“Well, let’s see here, Tammy Jo, it looks like you’ve been gossiping! What do you think God would think of allowing a gossip into heaven?”) I probably would have been more convincing if I hadn’t had to spread the script out on the desk because I hadn’t memorized it very well. (“Well, let’s see here….Tammy Jo…it looks like you have…have been…let me find it here…gossiping…”)
I just always thought I’d be discovered. Like Lana Turner who was discovered in a drug store soda fountain, or like Macy Grey who was homeless and singing on the street, or like the Jonas Brothers who were apparently discovered in a hair salon and even Pam Anderson who was spotted on a jumbotron at a football game. I may not be homeless, but I do frequent hair salons and occasionally football games and soda fountains.
Soooo, I’d be sitting in the hairdresser’s seat, looking all pensive yet bravely blissful, and, unknown to me, a talent agent (whose plane got unexpectedly grounded in Harrisburg and who desperately needed a root touch-up and drove 20 miles then just happened upon my salon) would be watching me curiously from the waiting area. “Why, that woman would be perfect in my new movie! Even her voice sounds so…joyous, cultured, bubbly…I don’t know,
perfect! I must whisk her away before any of those other talent scums get their hands on her!”
And the next thing you know, I’d be sitting in my limousine hot tub with George Clooney and the gang, sipping champagne and hiding my liposuction scars artfully under my sequined halter dress, as Angelina and I roll our eyes at Britney’s bad park job while heading to Oprah’s Pampered Chef party.
Unfortunately, I think it’s probably not going to happen anymore. I mean, I am a tad past Hollywood’s prime age of 23 and I’m not quite in shape anymore
[cough] and mostly I fall asleep in the hairdresser’s chair, it’s just so darn relaxing, so the chances of being discovered there may be slim. Honestly, it makes me a little sad, this realization of lost dreams, of Hollywood sticking its tongue out at me, while I slog along in my boring old life doing laundry and wiping noses and chauffeuring children around with nothing to look forward to anymore.
And Oprah? I was
going to put in a big order and get the entire set of stoneware. But you can just forget about that now.
