the oldest popstar speaks

The other afternoon I was having my cool coffee under a cool umbrella at a cool coffee shop, reading the cool paper like I usually don’t, when I found the “news” blurb announcing the auditions for next season’s Popstars. I smiled, thinking about how some of my readers had asked me to audition. It would be so funny to recap myself auditioning, ripping myself a new one as I flopped around covered in sweat, whining about how this is “my dream.”

I was feeling all proud of my cool-ass self until I read the last line of the audition notice.

I’m too old.

I’m too old to audition for Popstars. I’m too old to audition for this piece of crap show that I recap. I’m too old to prance around like a sissy, hoping that someone gives me a shot at the stars. I’m too old to be a tart. I’m too old to be a halter-top skank. I’m too old to be “too young to know better.”

That’s how I felt for about three seconds. Then I thought: “The problem is I’m not too old. I’m just not talented enough. That’s the damn problem.” The blurb should say, “Must have modicum of talent and decency.” It’s not that I look twenty-six. It’s not that I look twenty-four. It’s that I’m a pretty shitty dancer and can only sing if I hit 97 decibels. Age has nothing to do with this. I’m just not a good enough performer to be a Popstar. There’s no reason to kick me and call me “old lady” while I’m at it. I can recognize that I’m not good enough.

And the thing is, everyone is going to say they’re only twenty-one at these stupid auditions anyway. I remember the “young girls” from last year’s auditions. I think there are some current members of Eden’s Crush that wore jelly shoes and sang along to the Punky Brewster theme song.

So, I realized that the blurb didn’t make me feel old. That’s a good thing. But it did piss me off that they don’t mention levels of talent in the audition. They’re not asking for girls that can sing and dance. The only requirement for this show is that you’re young.

Then I remembered that I recap the show, and realized how much more fun it will be if it’s a group of boys and girls that have nothing but left feet and ambition.

But it always happens that once I start feeling sorta good about myself, something comes along to question it. Like last week hanging out with old friends I was just having a good time, and someone’s all, “It sure didn’t take long for L.A. to change you.”

A pair of silly sunglasses doesn’t make you a plastic bimbo. I know that. I know that they didn’t really mean it, but there I am thinking, “These glasses and these stupid ho nails. I’m a bad J Lo wannabe.”

I just want to have a cup of coffee and read the paper without having to re-evaluate my self-esteem.

I’ve also figured out my dream freelance writing gig. If anyone knows how I can swing this one, I’d be forever grateful. My current weakness: stupid beauty products. Masks, soaps, creams, toners– I’m currently searching for the perfect lip gloss. I’d save so much money and be much happier in my life if I could just be sent trial-size samples of these products and I’ll review them. I’d be good at it and it would make my life run smoother. It’d feed my addiction without me actually having the guilt that goes along with buying a moisturizer and then deciding I don’t like it enough to replace the old one, so it sits on a shelf forever. Anyway, that’s the dream freelance gig. Feel free to hire me.

So, I went to the actual wedding yesterday. Not the imaginary one from two weeks ago. It was the first time I’d ever been to a Hindu wedding. This one was half Hindu and half Catholic. I think it was the longest ceremony I’d ever seen. And there was one room for the ceremony, and then we walked to another area to wait to be seated and then we sat and waited for drinks and then we stood in another area with the drinks for the toast and then we sat back down in the other area to wait for food and then we walked to another place to get our food and then after eating our food we had to pick up our chairs and move to another place to sit at different tables to watch the dancing. It was a very active ceremony.

Here’s what people like when attending weddings: familiarity. Familiarity and complete laziness. People start complaining the second they have to move, wait, lean, order or pay. If you could have a wedding where people just sat in a circle and got drunk, fed, emotionally moved and then showered in presents, you’d have the most successful wedding ever. If I ever get married I’m spending all of the money on the reception so my friends can be lazy and drunk and then feel guilty they didn’t buy me better presents.

I’ve also attended a few weddings where I didn’t know anyone. Yesterday I’d never met the bride or the groom before. It’s a strange thing. I was thinking about this at the wedding last week. You can have pictures from your wedding and you’re looking through them going, “I have no idea who that man is.” I’m sure I ended up in some ceremony photos yesterday, as I was sitting behind the bride and groom as their picture was taken with some rice. This precious moment that the two of them will remember forever and instead of friends and family surrounding their memory, it’s going to be my big ol’ stranger head smiling away at them.

I enjoy finding out just what table I rank at a wedding. Table Seventeen, one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to where I didn’t know the bride or the groom, was the table closest to the bar. It ruled. We were stupid drunk and it didn’t matter because my table was filled with exes of the bride and current significant others of the exes of the brides. We were supposed to be stupid drunk. Table Three from last week was misleading. It sounds very important to be Table Three, but really the tables were just numbered from right to left. My table was filled with Work Friends and Relatives of the Ex of the Bride. Table Twelve last night was Work Friends of the Groom. Now that I think about it, all three of those tables were Tables Closest To the Free Bar But Far Enough Away From the Dance Floor That They Might Be To Lazy To Embarrass the Wedding Party.

I found a cigarette in my Wedding Purse yesterday. It was thrown away before I could start slow-dancing with it. I almost let that cigarette get to third with me.

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