#447: THE INTERVIEW
I have a surprise for you. Okay, well, maybe not for those of you who have wandered on over here from leahpeah. You leahpeahites have already witnessed my surprise.
My surprise is that I have good news. It's true. Today you do not have to weather the storm of my anxiety or myriad self-pitying complaints. Today, I am a wee bit thrilled, (and by "wee bit", I mean "wholly and completely").
A few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from her requesting an interview with me. I have to admit that I had not checked out the interview section of her website before then, so I toured down her sidebar. I was instantly stunned. She has interviewed the likes of Mrs. Kennedy and Mimi Smartypants and Heather Armstrong and Alice Bradley and Angela. I am a ridiculous fangirl for these folks, and I think I did the Dance of the Woman with the Flapping Hands accompanied by the Ululation of the Frightfully Excited for the Fiery One.
When Leah sent me her set of interview questions, I felt as though I had just wandered into an upscale cocktail party with a half-empty box of Budweiser and a squished pack of Parliament cigarettes. I thought I should embrace my roll, though, so I grabbed a notebook and pen and worked on my answers in the corner of a local pub over a couple of pints of draught.
The next day, when I was three less sheets to the wind, I took a look at my novel-length answers and knew that I had to do some serious whittling. This is a lesson I keep learning and re-learning but that never seems to stick: Don't Drink and Write. The last time I drank and wrote I worked up an embarrassing bit of poetry that likened the new moon to my barren soul. Drinking and writing brings out the fourteen-year-old goth in me every time.
After typing it up and sending it off, I was sure that Leah would e-mail me with a list of editorial suggestions. I went over my answers in my head and became certain that I should take it all back and start again. Had I really copped to the AC/DC thing? Did I have to mention the smell of my first period? And then it hit me: I write stuff on the internet all the time, and I don't walk around cracking my knuckles and worrying about my overuse of metaphor and knee-jerk adverbing.
I realized that part of my anxiety was stemming from the fact that I don't usually find myself in such close company with such well-known people of the internet. I had a clear case of the Grade Seven School Dance Jitters: I was sure that my clothes weren't as nice and that I had the wrong shoes, because all the other girls already had boobs.
Except that now I don't wear dresses, my shoes are pretty cool, and I totally have C-cup boobs.
I just want to keep saying boobs. Boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs.
Now me and my rebellious inner child are going to knock the lock off the liquor cabinet, sneak out back for a cigarette, and revel in being a thirty-three-year-old who no longer has to suffer my mother's taste in elastic-waisted, yellow rugby pants with turquoise piping.