Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be famous?  Do you imagine glamorous movie premiers or fan-filled stadiums…dream homes in exotic locations, private jets, fabulous parties and an equally famous significant other?

When I think about it (I mean, why wouldn’t I…I’m clearly teetering on the precipice of stardom) I shiver at the idea of losing that which we all take for granted…our privacy.  And privacy, well let’s just go ahead and tag that little freedom as priceless.  Consider, for instance, a simple trip to the grocery store…something I currently rank just above packing or suffering a compound fracture.  Were I famous - if my every move was scrutinized by the media or fans or the cashier - this formerly mundane, repetitive task would likely take on new meaning.  It would become a freedom lost…another piece of normalcy snatched from my perfectly manicured celebrity hands.  And I would sit around dreaming of the old days - when I could slap on some lip gloss and a ball cap and anonamously pop into Kroger for ice cream sandwich bars and some Playtex tampons.  Think about it.  Could Jennifer Aniston do so…unscathed?  Nope.  Her trip would be documented by the papparazzi and her purchases scrutinized as poor nutrition (followed by speculation on her body fat content) and environmentally hazardous feminine care products.

“Why all the talk about the pitfalls of fame, Nikki?  Did you finally sign up for those guitar lessons?  Did a music producer catch your rendition of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun at Starlight Karaoke?”

No.  I saw Brad Womack at the Porch Swing on Saturday.

“Who is Brad Womack?”

He was The Bachelor, you foolish, foolish girl/boy.  You know…the beautiful Austin singleton that “broke DeAnna’s heart”.  The one whose evilness we’re reminded of at the beginning of each Bachelorette episode.  Except that I never considered him evil.  I actually thought he was quite honest and brought a little street cred to that show.  He proved that happy endings may be encouraged…but they’re certainly not demanded…and therefore, not scripted.  And, let’s be honest, the show really played up that drama and is likely reaping the viewership benefits this season.

“But he’s not some big-time celebrity…he’s a reality star.”

I think you’re helping me to prove my point.  He isn’t  uber-famous.  You’re correct.  But it didn’t matter.  When he walked into that bar, all conversation stopped.  All eyes focused on him.  Then came the hushed tones, the whispered words…the moment in time he can’t escape.  He’s “that guy”…the one that left both ladies at the temporary, flower-draped final rose podium.

From the peanut gallery at Porch Swing:

“That’s the Bachelor!”

“I hear he’s got major issues…total commitment-phobe.”

“I heard he’s really a woman.  I mean, look at those pecs.”

 Can you imagine?  Try to toss aside the promise of amazing perks and really  think about this.  Every single place you went…every restaraunt, bar, sporting event…even extended family gatherings…there would be the eyes, the whispers, the physical assessment.  Sitting by yourself - for just a few moments of solitude - would be impossible…an opening for fans to surround you, talk to you, touch you, demand your autograph.  And if you want a sliver of normalcy, you have to do as Brad did.  You sit at the picnic table in the far corner, your back to the crowd.  Keep your head down, pray your bladder can hold out and focus only on those you came with.

Look, this is no slam on those interested onlookers…I was one of them.  It’s human nature.  Like rubbernecking or needing to pee once comfortable in your seat at the movie theater.  When I was living in NYC, celebrity sightings were fairly common, but the excitement was never lost.  In fact, a few weeks after settling into my tiny Upper West Side apartment, I was walking about, exploring the neighborhood, and I almost collided with Matt Dillon.   Let me repeat that.  I almost collided with Matt Dillon.  My first love.  The one who used to make my loins ache.  The one who caused my sister and I to risk grounding as we snuck downstairs, late at night, to watch a feather-haired, full-lipped adolescent Matt de-flower the equally feather-haired Kristi McNichol in Little Darlings.  Sigh.  Anyway, you can imagine the firestorm of mini heart-attacks that resulted during that near collision.  But I played it cool…as you are required to do in Manhattan.  I gave a little half-smile, cast my eyes downward, and walked on.  I also summoned every ounce of pride in my body to aid me in resisting the overpowering urge to turn, hop into Matt’s arms, wrap my legs around his waist, and never let go.  I’m still not sure I made the right decision.

“What’s your point, Nikki?”

The point is, Matt knew I was freaking out.  Even though I didn’t show it…he knew.  Add to that the throngs of others he passes each and every day…many of whom are not so respectful of his privacy, and you have a life on display…a life without privacy in public.  And, on occasion, that’s gotta really suck.

Back to Bachelor.  Whose arms, by the way, were the size of a small, mountainous country (see…there’s always the physical assessment).  I’ve been asked by a number of folks if I would ever consider going on the Bachelor…some have even threatened to send in an application without my knowledge.  But after I squeezed both of my hands, really hard around their neck…for 45 seconds (or however long it took for their eyes to start bulging a bit), they decided otherwise.  Because, “no”.  No!  From a purely logical point of view, I believe the odds of a successful Bachelor union are somewhere in the range of 10 to 20 percent of those in the real world.  Add to that the possibility of rejection - in front of millions, or seeing the reality of your kissing technique on a 50-something inch clear-as-crystal plasma TV, or realizing you’re the oldest person there (which brings those odds down to about 2 percent), or (and this is the worst of all), being trapped in a mansion with whiny, bitchy, conniving crazies.  I would be arrested, for maiming a crazy, and then I’d be seen as the crazy.  And I would be in jail.  So, no, I don’t want to be a contestant on The Bachelor.  I want to meet my one and only the old-fashioned way…by first dating slyly self-obsessed commitment phobes, flirting with misery and finally learning that I want the opposite.  Then I will stumble across the other anomaly…the one who’s been waiting for me…and not a second of it will be caught on tape.

If you love what you do, and that thing brings you public recognition or maybe even celebrity, maybe what you give up is worth what you gain.  But if it’s just about the money, the fancy home, the fame…you’ll find out, really quickly, what really matters…and you just might find yourself hiding in the corner of a bar…with your back to the crowd.

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