How Not to Act Meeting People You Admire

I have wanted to be cool my entire life. Throughout school and the decades beyond, I watched people be effortlessly cool. My thesaurus sums up with all its options for the word.

Composed. Relaxed. Assured. Unflappable.

My first Champion of Cool was Spock. You couldn't get more self-controlled, stolid, unflurried, or unruffled than Mr. Spock. He's my Spirit Animal.

I've always been more like Beaker, the Muppet lab assistant to Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. He spends much of his time wringing his hands while making small noises of anxiety, dubbed "meeps." Usually right before he catches fire or explodes. Dr. Honeydew was not an ethical scientist.

But to the outside world, when I venture there, I try to maintain my cool, if only superficially. But inside, I'm wringing my hands and meeping like a maniac.

My facade of coolness vanishes entirely when I meet, or even see, people I admire.

Let's look at a few examples, shall we?

Example One

My husband and I went to a concert by Sir Paul McCartney and his band. This was later than Wings. At the time, I was a passive Beatles fan. Since I was too young for Beatle Mania (by a few years)I looked at them as a great band, but they didn't impact my life. Also, growing up in a ballet family, I was skewed to classical music.

We were in the highest tier of the sold-out crowd, but they had big enough screens to make sure those of us in the cheap seats could see Paul McCartney, 2000 feet below us.

Before he came out, I was as cool as a cucumber direct from the vegetable bin. I was also thinking, oh dear, this might be loud. Tsk tsk.

Then, Paul appeared behind a screen, so you only saw his silhouette. Standing there, feet spread wide, he thrust his Höfner bass into the air, and the crowd went WILD.

My eyes grew wide and then I burst into tears. All coolness gone. I was a screaming, clapping, hopping lunatic like everyone else.

And, of course, I am a rabid fan now. My husband is a musician and has schooled me on The Beatles (and about every other band/musician that isn't classical).

Example Two

I was a cartoonist for years. One of my heroes has always been Lynda Barry. It was her style I emulated, if not downright copied.

We went to a talk of hers that had a book signing after. I had brought my favorite Lynda Barry book and stood in line. While I waited, I composed many intelligent things to say in my head. I wanted to impress and show her I was a compatriot. I wanted to tell her I had a signed book, complete with a personally drawn cartoon, by her ex, Matt Groening. I wanted to not be like a regular fan, but more like a creator like she was. I rehearsed this in my head for nearly an hour.

I finally made it up to her table. All my carefully composed words flew out of my brain.

All I could say was, "You're funny." And grin like a lunatic.

Naturally, Lynda Barry was generous with her time (which is why the wait was so long) and took a photo with me, which is above.

Example Three

There was an author I admired (and still do), Lidia Yuknavitch, who wrote a marvelous book, The Chronology of Water. The book resonated with me, and I wanted to meet her.

Off to another book signing for me!

She read from her book and then did a signing. I stood in line, already thinking of the intelligent things I'd say to impress her. Which parts I loved the most, why it affected me so much. I wanted her to see me as intelligent and literate with deep insights.

I finally got up to the table. There she was, perfectly composed and author-like. Cool. Again, my brain betrayed me and blasted out all thought, like an alien blasted out of the airlock in space. If you had been there, you probably could have seen all my thoughts shooting out of my ears and drifting around the ceiling.

With her sitting there, patiently waiting for me to speak, all I could manage was bursting into tears: gulping and weeping - the whole shebang.

She came around the table, hugged me, signed my book, patted my back, and offered a few words.

Two Examples

At a book signing for multiple cartoonists, I did manage to chat with a few of them while sounding reasonably sane. Then I stood in line for Tom Richmond. Winner of the coveted Reuben Award for Outstanding Cartoonist of The Year, a significant contributor of Mad and supreme caricaturist. I could have handled all of that, except for the fact he is HANDSOME.

I couldn't cope with handsome. Had I known before I went that he was handsome, I might have been able to talk myself into not letting it intimidate me. "He's not that handsome…he's not George Clooney…I'm sure there are lots of flaws that are invisible to the eye…he's like normal handsome, not crazy handsome."

I didn't even make it up to the table due to a slight panic attack. Can you have a "slight" panic attack? Maybe it was more an attack of shyness. Whatever, I couldn't make my feet move up to the table, even with the support and coaxing of my husband. I fled.

Same with Dan Piraro, who pens the single-panel cartoon, Bizarro. It wasn't so much that he was handsome, though I enjoy his handlebar mustache. In his fedora and suit, he was the Coolest Guy in Coolville. It was the rarified air that I couldn't negotiate, despite his friendly demeanor. I left the line, pretending like, oh! Gosh, there's a friend I haven't seen in decades! As if people cared what I did. It meant they were closer to the table. But if he had seen me in line, I didn't want him to think I left because of anxiety or shyness. I saw Good Ole Brenda! I'm sure years later, he still wonders why the lady in line waved to no one and ran off. Or maybe he doesn't. Probably the latter.

The Weirdest Example

I was at a comic con. I managed to maintain my sanity through Michael Rooker (Walking Dead), Brent Spiner (Star Trek: Next Generation), and Morena Baccarin (Firefly and tons of other things).

Morena had her little dog with her, and I was comfortable enough to almost ask if she would like me to walk her dog. Had I done that, I'm sure she would have pressed the secret security button to have me dragged off.

But there was a celebrity I couldn't approach. Maybe I had used up my bravado by the time we came across him.

He was standing so close, chatting with people. No line; people could hang out and talk. He was promoting a children's book he had written and signed. There wasn't a table or booth he was standing behind, just a table where the books were stacked. I didn't see a handler pre-asking people for the name to write on the photo or book and ensuring they didn't make a nuisance of themselves. He was mingling, laughing, and smiling. The atmosphere was casual and fun. It was almost like he showed up with his books, commanded a small square of space, and waited for people to come to him.

The man that froze me that day was Henry Winkler. Henry Winkler! Of course, he had been Fonzie on Happy Days, and that character was Cool Squared.

"Go say hi," my husband encouraged. He even nudged me a bit. NO! I couldn't. I could only stand nearby, eyeing him secretly, trying to look like I was doing no such thing. He was older, had a bit of a paunch, and wore a bright green turtleneck. He seemed friendly and chatty, but I had a shy attack. I couldn't go up to a wholly approachable and authentically lovely guy. I still can't figure it out.

I will say that nowadays, I accept my uncoolness. I am not hip or cool or unflappable. I'm flappable to a high degree. I'm more flappable than a duck. That's ok. That's me.

If we should ever meet, even if I don't look like I'm flapping on the outside, you can be assured I am flapping wildly on the inside.

Originally published on Medium.Com