<Originally posted elsewhere on February 9th, 2009>
It has nothing to do with the fact that I can't sing my way out of a paper bag. I feel quite confident that my lack of singing ability could be dealt with post-production (and thanks to Katy Perry's Grammy performance, we've all been quickly schooled on just how important those editor/sound/post-production people are).
I think I could probably keep up with the touring schedule thanks to vitamins, exercise and just a little tiny bump of meth here and there.
What I could not handle would be constant public criticism of every thing I did or didn't do right.
My heart goes out to poor Jessica Simpson. I'm not a fan of hers and I'll admit to having a few laughs at her expense thanks to her MTV show and subsequent quandary as to whether tuna really was the chicken of the sea. She was cute in a horse-y sort of way and disarming in the simple sing-songy-way we refer to ducks and small animals.
The poor girl ate a plate of chicken wings and took the unfortunate fashion advice to pull on a pair of mom-jeans for a concert and you'd swear she was the anti-Christ. She's on nearly every major magazine in the unfortunate outfit and with the coverage being what it is, you'd think she's single-handedly responsible for the economic crisis because she ate all the money.
One magazine even published what she ate over a weekend. This is the point where I would absolutely go ape-shit. You look at me even the tiniest bit sideways over something I'm eating and you're gonna get the stink eye. If my menu were public, I'd have to spend a lot of time knocking on doors and swatting people with the godforsaken publications that reported my consumption of Diet Coke and Chick-fil-a. (Because of course, it would be BORING to report my tuna salad on whole wheat, colon-bursting bowl of broccoli, or my sugar free chocolate pudding.)
So WHAT if she gained a few pounds? The media coverage is just unthinkable. Although, as bad as that is, what's worse is that poor Jessica will probably hire an overpriced Hollywood trainer and subject herself to a life of daily 3 hour workouts and sneaking Oreos in the bathroom.
The older I get, I realize what a private person I am. I screw up constantly but I like it to be a mostly private issue that is kept between the person I fucked over, myself, a bottle of gin and my cat (because he's the only one who REALLY listens without trying to sidetrack me with helpful advice).
I think I would die of a heart attack if I were checking out at Wal-mart only to see a picture of myself on a magazine with the caption "She didn't use her words". Or "She's Co-dependent Again". I think I would probably redefine "going postal" to something the postal employees have never seen the likes of in their line of work. It would probably involve hydrogen peroxide, margaritas and involuntary organ donation.
I feel thankful that no one cares when I buy tampons, WD-40 and milk at Walgreens. I am grateful that no one cares when I leave the house without make-up and my hair in a messy ponytail. I am relieved that those sobby, messy, pathetic moments when I hate the world and cry in the shower stay IN the shower. I'm also grateful that when I trash a hotel room thanks to too many drugs and prostitutes, I... ummm... well, I digress. (No one cares except the hookers, but hey, they're dead!)
Perhaps I will purchase Jessica Simpon's new album (even though it's a country album and I generally abhor country) just so the poor girl can continue to afford eating chicken wings AND dessert at Bennigan's. (Although, I wish she'd send me some because I really miss Bennigan's.)
I will also continue to keep a watchful eye on the kit-kats since they could really sell me out should they grow thumbs and an extra ten or so brain cells.
(I'm also grateful to have the kinds of friends who love me despite not being able to find my pants, nod at my drunken ideas like they're really good ones and who will braid my hair if I really, really need it.)
Jam out with your clam out, Jess. It's good for ya.
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