“What an amazing idea,” he marveled. “We’ll keep seeing each other and then maybe someday you will.” I felt as charmed as I’d ever been, and even more so when he insisted on writing my name and number on the dry erase board in his kitchen.
Then, a few nights later, we went out to dinner. It didn’t help that there were only about six people in the restaurant and they all felt the need to have conversations with the actor right then; it wasn’t great when he, apparently grooving to some beat inside his head, began drumming the table with his fingers in lieu of pursuing any kind of conversation. But the truth was without a child, a soccer ball, a movie and good kisses to distract us, we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. Just like anyone not living under a rock, I already knew more about him than I could possibly want to and so all the standard where-are-you-from, do-you-get-along-with-your-family dating 101 questions seemed irrelevant. And as the meal went on, with only a finger-drum beat gaining momentum, I realized that he didn’t seem remotely interested in finding out anything about me. After he took me home, walked me to my door and gave me a kiss, I never heard from the guy again.
The fact that he kept his allegedly important numbers on an erasable surface finally registered.
The moral of it all? Though it certainly isn’t fair to have a few isolated experiences and claim that all men in the same profession behave similarly, you’re probably safer generalizing about actors than you are about say, doctors or teachers. The fact is there’s something supremely unnatural about being elevated to the status of icon for providing entertainment. It’s got to make life surreal to the point that pressing the figurative pause, play and fast forward buttons feels not only justified but also natural. You’re probably better of leaving the actors on the movie or TV screen, where you’re the one holding the control buttons.
