best supporting
A couple months ago, I posted a profile on Friendster. Under the "About me" section I posted something like this: "I'm the girl in the movie. Not the main girl, but the best friend. The one who enters to kick ass, clean up the mess or (inadvertantly, mind you) provide comic relief. I'm the one who, as the credits roll, ends up going home with the cute bartender, storylines unresolved, but happy nonetheless."
I do see myself as the girl in the movie. It happens occasionally. The sitcom/movie life.
The year or so post college I spent living with four HUGE (read: 6' plus to my 5' barely) guys in a place that from the outside, looked like a respectable stone cottage, while the inside resembled nothing so much as a fraternity house: pool table in the dining room, basketball net hung over the arched door in the living room, a fridge full of cheap beer and a never-ending string of girls that would stumble out the front door on Saturday mornings, bleary-eyed, smelling of stale bar and wincing from the blaring, thumping Xydeco that one roommate inexplicably favored as part of his anti-hangover regimen.
The three years I spent living literally hand-to-mouth waiting tables (Episode: The day the bartender chipped my front tooth the night before my cousin's wedding), working at the theatre (Episode: The day I forgot how to speak German), freelance writing when I could get a gig (Episode: The day the Indian professor played hard-to-get on payday) and working for an upscale Atlanta interior designer when I couldn't (Episode: The day I had to kill the designer's cat). Sleeping little, partying lots. I remember being filled with angst and yet looking back, I had not a care in the world. Formulaic sitcom stuff.
Even the post party-party years, adjusting uncomfortably to a job in the corporate world, learning that things like micro-t's, cargo pants and Birkenstocks aren't acceptible corporate wear. Teaching on the side and learning why "Because I said so!" sounds so much more legit an explanation than it used to. Discovering art. Discovering how to repair a broken heart. Discovering that life doesn't have to be all that complicated, but that it's hard to remember sometimes.
Plots. Themes. Episodes. Story Arcs. Morals and points. Protagonist -- me. Antagonist -- the world.
Not so much lately.
No, lately, since posting that toungue-in-cheek profile, I am, in fact, the secondary character in my own life. You know, just hanging out in the green room, flipping through outdated magazines and waiting for my cue to say my line and then exit quietly stage left so that the high drama, featuring the real stars, can continue on set. Thank you for your time. The check will be in the mail.
And I suppose, for the moment, it's okay. I'd rather deal with other people's drama than create my own. But soon, I would like a little fun adventure in which I get to star again. Something light and funny, but with heart. The kind of story that leaves you smiling as you leave the theatre and makes it high on your list at Netflix.
In the meantime, I think I'm going to grab some Twizzler's from the craft service table and maybe, you know, rework my profile on Friendster.
I do see myself as the girl in the movie. It happens occasionally. The sitcom/movie life.
The year or so post college I spent living with four HUGE (read: 6' plus to my 5' barely) guys in a place that from the outside, looked like a respectable stone cottage, while the inside resembled nothing so much as a fraternity house: pool table in the dining room, basketball net hung over the arched door in the living room, a fridge full of cheap beer and a never-ending string of girls that would stumble out the front door on Saturday mornings, bleary-eyed, smelling of stale bar and wincing from the blaring, thumping Xydeco that one roommate inexplicably favored as part of his anti-hangover regimen.
The three years I spent living literally hand-to-mouth waiting tables (Episode: The day the bartender chipped my front tooth the night before my cousin's wedding), working at the theatre (Episode: The day I forgot how to speak German), freelance writing when I could get a gig (Episode: The day the Indian professor played hard-to-get on payday) and working for an upscale Atlanta interior designer when I couldn't (Episode: The day I had to kill the designer's cat). Sleeping little, partying lots. I remember being filled with angst and yet looking back, I had not a care in the world. Formulaic sitcom stuff.
Even the post party-party years, adjusting uncomfortably to a job in the corporate world, learning that things like micro-t's, cargo pants and Birkenstocks aren't acceptible corporate wear. Teaching on the side and learning why "Because I said so!" sounds so much more legit an explanation than it used to. Discovering art. Discovering how to repair a broken heart. Discovering that life doesn't have to be all that complicated, but that it's hard to remember sometimes.
Plots. Themes. Episodes. Story Arcs. Morals and points. Protagonist -- me. Antagonist -- the world.
Not so much lately.
No, lately, since posting that toungue-in-cheek profile, I am, in fact, the secondary character in my own life. You know, just hanging out in the green room, flipping through outdated magazines and waiting for my cue to say my line and then exit quietly stage left so that the high drama, featuring the real stars, can continue on set. Thank you for your time. The check will be in the mail.
And I suppose, for the moment, it's okay. I'd rather deal with other people's drama than create my own. But soon, I would like a little fun adventure in which I get to star again. Something light and funny, but with heart. The kind of story that leaves you smiling as you leave the theatre and makes it high on your list at Netflix.
In the meantime, I think I'm going to grab some Twizzler's from the craft service table and maybe, you know, rework my profile on Friendster.
posted by jill at 8/08/2004 02:03:00 PM
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