I’m not the type of girl to take camera phone pictures of a Gossip Girl shoot. I ignore celebrities on the street, with the exception of Ann Coulter, who I elbowed turning the corner of 78th and 3rd last winter.
But when I come face to face with Michael Showalter in my office, on the magenta couch I pass every morning on my way upstairs on my slow and steady trudge toward my cubicle, I lose my shit.
I lost my shit. True story. I made it to the elevator and screeched, cutting Chris off mid-sentence, allowing the flush to climb up my neck and take full, embarrassing rapture at home in my cheeks.
I sent a mass text message. I called my brother.
I posted on my blog.
I didn’t even notice David Wain, poor sweet David Wain, next to him. No — time slowed down, Wain faded into the blurry background. It was Michael Showalter and I locked in a half-second time warp that lasted at least one hour of insanity.
What does this mean? Oh, nothing. Perhaps, in essence, I’m just a regular girl around a celebrity. Perhaps I don’t allow myself to freak out until I really see something I deem worthy of a freak out. And maybe Michael Showalter is my soulmate.
And he smiled at me. Did I mention that? He smiled at me, he caught my eye, and looked away.
Oh, oh my. Eight hours later and I’m still flushed.
subway philosophy 