Celebrities and Uncomfortable Stories

I have a problem with celebrity. 

I am considering this as I’m drinking the too-large glass of wine I promised myself I would not have this evening (more on this in a minute).  Take a moment to travel back in time with me.  

The year was 2004.  The world had just discovered an artist named Kanye West and his debut album, The College Drop Out, made us fall in love with him.  Smart phones and selfie sticks didn't exist. MySpace was hot on the streets.

I was in the Navy and had long dreamed of kissing Bob Barker in front of a live studio audience.  My uniform and my good looks all but guaranteed this would happen.  I booked my first flight to LA and set out to fulfill my destiny. 

I got to the studio at 4am to wait in line for my turn at stardom.  I was hyped.  Imagine me, but twelve years younger, more excited than I’ve ever been, screaming and smiling and laughing, fueled by adrenaline.  

I had no food.  I had no water.  I had no idea that I would not be interviewed as a contestant until 12:30pm.  

I waited in a long line of people, wasting every “Woooooh!” and every “Yeaaaah” in my belly, building camaraderie with the other potential contestants around me.  

Finally, it was my turn to be interviewed by a panel of three show runners.  But all my pizzazz was gone.  I was only a shell of the Lonelli you all know and love.  But obviously, I was still really, really good looking.

The show started and contestant after contestant, I waited knowing I would be called next to take center stage, like I was born to do.  But "next" never came for me on that dark, soulless Las Angeles day.  I’ve had to live with that pain for twelve years.

This anecdote, heart wrenching though it may be, was not the most painful part of that trip.  Brace yourselves, friends.  This is... uncomfortable.

Remember, it was my first trip to LA.  And I’m me.  So of course I wore the very cutest outfit I owned to check into my hotel.  I’m not sure that I really knew what I was doing with my makeup or my hair twelve years ago, but you couldn’t tell me I wasn’t cute.  I was with my best friend and she was speaking with the desk agent.  Then I looked up and saw her; standing across the other side of the lobby which was easily the length of a basketball court.  A super model, but good.  

“TYRA!!!” I shouted as if we were the oldest of friends. 

I was loud enough to still a bustling lobby and make Tyra Banks look up from her conversation to stare at me.  I took off.  Bee-lined it straight to this woman whose half naked body I had seen on the covers of Sports Illustrated; whose very tips I used from America’s Next Top Model to apply my makeup earlier that morning.

Faint in the background, I heard my friend yell, “Lonelli!  Noooooo.”  But it was too late.  I reached Tyra, who remains the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in real life and stared at her.  Doe eyed.  A mortal bowing to a goddess.  

"Tyra,” I said softly this time.  Then gulped, suddenly and simultaneously feeling and smelling the sweat pool in my armpits and realizing I had nothing to actually say to her.  I gazed in her eyes with the hope of a schoolyard crush and said simply, “I love you.” 

“Thank you,” she said politely, with an edge of fear in her voice.  I motioned for a hug and she leaned-in, quickly tapping my back while she tucked her butt out behind her to minimize contact with my body.  

Then it was over.  

We didn’t laugh or gossip or swap hair and makeup tips.  She didn’t invite me to lunch or ask me for my phone number.  We would never be best friends.  

I went back to my hotel room and cried real tears.  My parents, liars that they are, promised me I could be anything I wanted.  But it was at this moment that I knew, unequivocally, I would never be an international super model. 

Las Angeles is the cruelest city. 

 

A stinging reminder of the friendship that could have been; hanging on the wall in my apartment.  Framed.

2016

A lot has changed.  I miss the old Kanye.  I don’t go to the bathroom without my Smart Phone.  Selfies are a way of life.  I have multiple platforms with which to share my celebrity sightings.  I’ve all but nailed my makeup game.  My hair, I won’t lie, is on point 95% of the time.  (This last bit is not necessarily relevant to the story; I’m just saying this is the case.)

Back to my too-large glass of wine.  I signed up to become a mentor to transitioning veterans with an organization called ProVetus.  Today, my cohort of ten hopeful mentors covered the heaviest subject, suicide prevention.  Veterans commit suicide at a rate of 22 per day.  The training focused on identifying warning signs of veterans in danger and getting them help immediately.

Two new people joined our cohort today, Joe and an actress who is definitely Not Tyra Banks.  Nor is she as famous (but if you saw her, you would recognize her immediately).  Out of respect for her privacy, I will give no clues, other than to say she is both lovely and beautiful (and like Tyra Banks, slightly afraid of me).

We went around the room re-introducing ourselves for the benefit of the two new cohort members, and explaining what drove this mixed group of civilians and veterans to become mentors.

LG: Hi, I’m Lonelli and this is my story, BUM - BUM.  

(Fine, this Law-and-Order nod is the one hint you’ll get as to her identity, but everyone’s been on L&O, so get over it.)  

I have a huge crush on NTB  (Not Tyra Banks).  I just want to say that I think we would be best friends and we should hang out.

NTB – Awkwardly:  Um.  I don’t really know what to say to that.  Thank you?  I’m flattered.  But I’m not gay and I’m not sure if that’s where you were going?

LG: (Internal Monologue):

Wayment.  

How are we supposed to be best friends if she doesn’t get me?  I have been boy crazy since before I could speak.  And also, is this rejection coming from the fact that my eye makeup is smudged?  I’ve totes been wearing it all day and the Tyra Banks taught me how to apply it.  On television.  Not in real life.  Our conversation never got that far.   

I blurt out the only response that might save me from this rejection: 

“I have a boyfriend.”

Slam? 

I should have gone home and cried real tears having learned at this moment, unequivocally, that I would never be witty enough to anchor Live! with Lonelli and Keanu.  Another dream crushed.  Thanks Mom & Dad.

Readers.  Friends.  There is likely some amount of intensive psychotherapy needed to understand why I am the way I am.  But we can save that for another day. For now, I leave you with a collection of my greatest hits: A few of my besties and ME!

 

 

 

Spinning with Femke

Omar comin

Sweating it out with David D.

 

Bridget M. totes has a crush on me.

Poetry in motion.

Real life sisters separated by fame, money and probably a cooler apartment.  But I'm taller, so suck it, Rosario.