Wednesday, March 28, 2012
So I just turned old three days ago. Yeah, yeah, I'm still young and in my 20's but gat diggity do the years go by fast. Too fast. I was sixteen yesterday, today I'm shopping for girdles. I feel like I just got to LA but yet I feel like a weathered veteran too. I've definitely reached the point of being a "middle-aged young person" in this business as I'd like to say, because most of young Hollywood started in the biz as kids or teens and break big by their early 20's. I started a little later than that...
I never want to sound like one of those neurotic actresses obsessed with age and weight (which I am) but I certainly would like to hide this psychosis like a bottle of Jack in the back of a linen closet. I'm well aware that in the real world (everywhere except for Los Angeles) I am still a budding young person, fully immersed in the best time of my life. I still look younger than my age. I am not yet 30. That apocalypse is still a few years off, thank Christ.
Two people called me on my birthday. Two. My best girlfriend from childhood and my ex-boyfriend. Mind you, I have hundreds of people ("friends") saved in my phone, two roommates, a brother, a sister, seven aunts, three uncles, a grandmother, nieces and nephews, dozens of cousins....you get the picture. Nothing makes you feel more like an old loser than only two people calling to wish you Happy Birthday while having to get your next shift covered at the restaurant you work at so you can spend more time with your aging parents in the middle of nowhere. But refreshingly, it still felt like the best place to be on earth.
I spent the last week in Bloomington, IL (home of State Farm Insurance headquarters, Illinois State University, and birthplace of white trash), where my parents live. It's two hours outside of Chicago so being there is kind of like being trapped in that little steel closet with Jodie Foster in "Panic Room." I love spending time with my parents, they're hilarious, but there's just simply nothing to do down there except get fat or pregnant. I decided I wanted to finally go shooting at a shooting range, since I knew for sure there had to be plenty of shooting ranges in a place where there are more roosters than people.
So my dad took my mom and I shooting. We went out to KKK land to some remote farm with a painted sign nailed to a tree which read "Darnell's Shootin' Range." I was a little afraid for my life but splashed a smile on my face to wash the fear off. We were greeted by two sturdy English bulldogs and several expected wide-eyed, confused gapes, but the staff was quite friendly. We shot my dad's revolver and it was so much fun! I'm a horrible shot, but I've made a new New Year's resolution (yeah, I know) to become an absolute marksman by Dec. 21, 2012 (the end of the world...as we know it). Since you know, every old lady needs to know how to shoot.
Happy Birthday to me.