Occasionally, on a day at a coffee shop when my hair looks really good, someone will spot me and say, “Hey, I loved what you wrote.” Nobody will recognize me on a Duane Reade when I check creams for athlete’s foot.
Photo by Robert Daly / Getty
Sixty percent of mothers will know and adore me, but one hundred percent of internet trolls will have no idea that I exist.
No one will ever see a photo of my face on a scale larger than my actual face.
Exactly one person will ask for my autograph and not tell anyone that I still italicize my name in elementary school.
I will never have to wait for a table at Panera Bread.
People I met in passing will refer to me as “private” instead of “socially fearful” or “prone to hiding in piles of coats on bed during parties”.
Fame will bring me enough money to make rent, send all of my future dogs to obedience school, and keep planned parenting afloat, but not so much that a wicked fifth cousin comes out of the woodworks to get me to do it bring to pay for the cosmetics of his snake dental treatment.
I have to travel with a security detail but it will be a pack of well trained chiweenies.
The only place I’ll be too famous is the gym. And I’ll be sad first. But I’ll get over it.
My tweets will still only get about twelve likes, but one of them will always come from my close friend and confidante Mindy Kaling. So who really cares about the numbers?
My parents let me pick the check up when we go out to eat while we’re eating at Panera Bread. And we have a voucher. And the bread bowls are on sale.
When leaving Panera, my mother hears a rustling in the bushes and screams: “Oh no! Is that the paparazzi? “But it’s just going to be one big squirrel – one that isn’t going to put my photo on the cover of Us Weekly under a rude headline like” BABY BUMP? “
My colleagues will describe me as “cut from another fabric” instead of “luckily not knowing that their shirt is inside out”.
I’ll make my lifelong dream come true (and risk my athlete’s foot relapse) by taking part in Dancing with the Stars. Somewhere out there, a viewer at home will ask his partner, “Isn’t she too famous to be? on this show? “But your partner will confirm that it’s not me.
With my humble platform, I’m going to lead a crusade against Proactiv and create a foundation for teenagers who were burned the night before yearbook photos – both figuratively and chemically. I will continue to raise awareness by tweeting my own eighth grade yearbook picture, where my face is dry and blotchy and my shirt is bleached orange around the collar. The tweet received twenty-seven likes (and a retweet from Mindy Kaling).
My father will tell people that I have always been a “dreamer” rather than a “person who cannot physically get up before 10am”.
I am selected as the new face of Panera Bread. According to my contract, there are no billboards.
