The worst statement a celebrity can make when confronting, say, the police, is, “Do you know who I am?” Instead, they should say, “I hope you don’t know who I am.” But some celebrities think the world is their bubble and everyone knows them.
I’m hardly a celebrity. My bubble is a speck. Case in point, I had just enjoyed attending a conference where I felt hundreds of people knew me, or at least knew of me. Reality was but an hour and a hundred steps away.
Checking out at 5 a.m., I asked the hotel clerk, “You won’t charge me a late departure fee, will you?”
Instead of chuckling or hinting at a smile, he deadpanned, “No.”
“I was just making a joke since it’s so early.”
The clerk offered a solemn nod.
As my receipt printed, I thought, Ummm, it’s 5 a.m. Don’t you want to feel better simply by smiling? Guess not. Gone were my friends willing to laugh at all my flimsy jokes. So, if I tell a Dad joke, is it considered a Mom joke? No matter the label, I love that my friends laugh at my jokes. They know who I am.
Soon, I ventured to the curb to wait for my Uber to arrive. A young blonde strode up to await her ride.
“Were you here for the conference?” she ventured.
“Yes.” Early in my career, I learned to only depart from any conference with full makeup and hair in place, so I thought she might recognize me.
“What do you write?” she wanted to know.
I held back a chuckle since I hadn’t been asked that question in some time. “I’m an agent.”
No sign of recognition.
“Tamela.” That usually helps. I don’t think I’m Cher; but introducing myself as “Tamela Hancock Murray” seemed obnoxious in context.
Still no sign of recognition. I don’t think all three names would have helped.
At least I was able to answer a few questions for her. She was starting out and not ready for an agent. I can understand why a new author not intending to talk to agents wouldn’t press the “Agent Appointments” tab on a website and learn about agents. Wanting to offer encouragement, I welcomed her to add me to her list of agents to submit to when she’s ready. Perhaps I should have suggested she label her work “Curbside Author,” so I’d know who she was.
Entering my Uber, I texted my husband, the only person to whom I send kiss emojis.
I remembered the many servings of perfectly prepared filet mignon I’d consumed all week. Yum! So, during the conversation, I asked about his thoughts regarding lunch.
“Leftover BBQ and fresh buns.”
Back to the real world where I belong. I smiled all the way to the airport.
