by Penny Reid
And, because I am meticulous about my security protocols, no one knows who I am… that I am she… that she is me.
Never mind. You know what I mean.
Anyway, Saturday Celebrity Stalker is my weekly post dedicated to celebrities or their look-alikes wherein their physical features are picked apart John Madden style (John Madden being the famous American football coach then announcer who loved to draw on the home viewers’ TV screen with circles, arrows, and random lines to demonstrate errors in football plays).
Except, I do this to celebrities (almost exclusively male celebrities) and question their judgment regarding grooming, makeup (yes, makeup), clothes, and accessory choices. And, if they’re walking a dog, I do it to their little dog too.
The level to which I pick apart the celebrity’s lack of judgment depends on several factors, and I’m the first to admit I’m a good deal easier or/nicer to those people with talent than I am to celebriturds (people who are famous because they’re famous/rich, with no redeeming qualities to offer society) and celebritrash (celebriturds who are also fame whores).
However, I try not to comment too much on bodies or facial features. Personally I feel like we—western culture—are so body obsessed, there’s no need for me to add to the hysteria. Especially since these famous people already give me so much fodder with their ridiculous million dollar fanny packs (made in third world sweat shops) and their gold plated floss holders.
Why does anyone need a gold plated floss holder? Tell me. Why? Why? Why?
I don’t know. I don’t get it.
Most men loved being featured on my blog. My posts typically resulted in emails of praise and thanks from publicity hungry agents and celebrities. Sometimes they’d make a donation to charity in the name of the blog or respond with a self-deprecating parody on YouTube.
I took care to focus on satire, poking fun at the extremes, playfully objectifying these untouchable gods among men. Women, especially females of notoriety, in our society had to suck up and swallow daily doses of criticism about everything—too fat, too skinny, wearing the same outfit twice in public, having an opinion—from fake TV personalities and tabloid vultures.
In comparison to these self-esteem vampires, I provided a public service. So I make fun of these famous-people-specific idiosyncrasies on a blog followed by twenty million people. It was all in good fun.
The lookalike continued to smile and sign napkins for the group of ladies. He might not have actually been the Irish actor, but he was definitely a somebody. Luckily for him, it was 3:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon; that meant Tom’s Southern Kitchen was virtually empty of customers. Surreptitiously, I angled my telephone and clicked out of my email, pulling up my smartphone’s camera.
I then took about forty or fifty shots over the next two minutes, until my view of the hubbub was blocked by a waiter bringing over my bag of takeout. I didn’t quite make eye contact with my server as I paid for the food, collected my belongings as leisurely as I could manage, and left the small restaurant.
Eye contact is difficult for me. I know that seems strange; it is strange. For the longest time I assumed I was just very shy; that is until I started engaging with people online. That’s when I discovered in-real-life-Annie is shy. She is reclusive and quiet. She observes. She seldom speaks. She dislikes attention of any kind.
But the Socialmedialite, my online handle, is gregarious and silly. She is opinionated. She craves interaction and attention. She is clever and witty (mostly because, online, wittiness is not a factor of time; in real life you have to be quick-witted in order to be considered witty).
My bag slung over my shoulder, I carried the takeout in one hand and held my phone in the other. I was eager to thumb through my new pictures on the short walk back to my apartment. I hadn’t taken notice of much except for the guy’s resemblance to the Irish actor while sitting at my table pretending to check my email.
Therefore I was anxious to analyze what he was wearing, what he was carrying, and any other potentially remarkable external manifestations of eccentricity. I turned the corner of XXX and XXX, now just a half block from my building, and studied the shots.
Initially, all I saw was a guy who looked like Colin Farrell with a strange looking, albeit small, apparatus strapped to his back, his feet in those God-awful toe-shoes that make the wearer look like a hobbit. His shirt was lime green, skin tight, highlighting his impressively muscled physique, and appeared to be made of Lycra; his thighs were chorded and thick, plainly visible because he wore spandex—black spandex, not lime green.
On 99.9% of people, this outfit would have looked completely ridiculous. But not on this guy. He looked hot. Really, really hot.
However, during my second, third, and fourth perusal—and especially in the pictures where his face was turned toward the natural light of the windows—I noted something remarkable about his eyes. Though his mouth held a wide, welcoming grin, his eyes struck me as sad. Terribly, terribly sad. And when I say struck me I mean they made my steps falter and slow, and a sudden involuntary intake of breath.
Here was this guy, physical perfection, obviously living a charmed life, walking around with mesmerizingly sad, soulful eyes. They were the kind of eyes that pull you in, ensnare you, bind you, hold you and your focus and your priorities hostage.
They took my breath away.
Some strange, long dormant and heavily suppressed instinct urged me to run back to the restaurant, wrap him in my arms, and cradle him to my bosom. My heart gave a little twist. I wanted to kiss away his hurts… or at least make his hurts some cookies.
I shook myself, forcing my feet to move purposefully forward toward home, and burry these arresting and unwelcomed instinctual reactions.
The critic in me reassessed the image and couldn’t ignore the toe-shoes, the lime green workout shirt, or the spandex—SPANDEX!—shorts. Even the top 1% of good looking men should know better than to wear spandex shorts outside of a sporting event.
Just… no.
Sad and soulful notwithstanding, this man needed an intervention.
Although, spandex is nice for highlighting…
Struck by sudden curiosity, and because I am a red-blooded woman, I zoomed in on the area of his groin.
That’s right, I’m a reclusive pervert and I make no apologies for it. And, giving the matter some thought, a reclusive, shy pervert is much preferable to an extroverted pervert. I might also be a tad sexually starved since I avoid all physical, real life human interaction.
Just a tad.
I walked past my doorman and into my building, keeping my attention affixed to the phone as I studied the bulge in the man’s spandex running shorts. Tearing my bottom lip between my teeth, I boarded the elevator and tried another picture; in this one he was angled toward the window, half facing the camera. I zoomed in a bit more.
“Whatever you’re looking at must be really interesting.”
I jumped back and away from the voice, sucking in a startled breath, jostling the bag of takeout in my hand and clutching my phone to my chest. I hadn’t realized that I was not alone on the elevator.
I found him, my companion, looking at me with an amused smile. His blue eyes were suspicious, but good-natured, slits. I recognized him immediately as my very tall, very nice looking, ambiguously single next door neighbor.
Ambiguously single because he always had a date, but it was never the same lady friend twice.
I didn’t blame him, not at all. By all outward appearances this guy was a hot commodity. Impeccably tailored designer suit and Italian leather shoes that announced both power and wealth; a chiseled jaw beneath perfectly formed lips framing stunningly white teeth; strong nose, bright blue eyes, expertly spiked and shaped blond hair. He looked like the type that subscribed to a beauty regimen. I was pretty sure his eyebrows were plucked and shaped by a professional.
I guesstimated his age as just cresting thirty; hard to tell with meterosexualizing of his appearance. Add to all this a body
that reminded me of a cyclist or a runner—lean and well maintained—he was a well groomed wolf in wolf’s clothing and the females in Manhattan were helpless sheep.
After two seconds of stunned staring, I ripped my eyes from his amused half-lidded gaze and blinked around the mirrored space, trying to get my bearings.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry; in fact, I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh. “Sorry I scared you.”
I shook my head, my phone still clutched to my chest, and affixed my attention to the floor of the elevator.
“It’s fine. I was just startled.” I said, swallowing.
We were quiet for a beat but I could feel his eyes on me. I glanced at the display above the floor buttons, trying to gauge how much longer I was going to have to share the elevator with Mr. Ambiguously Single.
To my dismay, he spoke again. “You’re Annie, right?”
I nodded, my eyes flickering to the side to glance at him then back to the display.
“I’m your neighbor, Kurt.” In my peripheral vision I saw that he’d turned completely toward me and offered his hand.
I glanced at him again, at his friendly, easy smile and friendly, easy eyes. Then I glanced at the takeout bag in my right hand and the phone held to my chest. I seriously debated whether or not to shrug and say nothing.
See, the problem with being a really well paid shy person is that you have no incentive to ascribe to social niceties and norms. My company loves me (most of the time), the clients love me, they love the magic I work. I seldom go into the office—only Wednesdays and Fridays. I have an office, I just prefer to work from home.
I’m not agoraphobic. I go out in public, I walk five miles in the park every day, I love the Natural History Museum and visit once a week; as well, I frequent places where celebrities are typically spotted so I can get shots for the blog. Being a lurker doesn’t require social interaction. Therefore, if I speak—in person—to more than ten people during any given week then it’s been an above average week.
Nevertheless, some part of me rebelled against being rude. I might contemplate becoming a wackadoodle recluse in my brain, but I could never fully commit to the role. Therefore, I shifted my belongings, placed my phone—with the crotch shot—into my bag, and accepted his hand for a quick shake.
But it wasn’t a quick shake. His fingers tightened around mine until I lifted my eyes to his and relaxed my hand. His gaze expectant, interested; his smile soft and really very attractive. I was perplexed as to why he was wielding both in my direction.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Annie.” He sounded like he meant it.
I returned his smile as best as I could, felt my eyebrows lift on my forehead. “You too, Kurt.”
“We should get together some time. Get to know each other.” He said these words in a rush, almost like he was afraid I might disappear before he finished speaking.
“Yeah.” I nodded, trying to mimic his intonation of sincerity. “Sure. We should do that.”
Thankfully the doors opened. I took advantage of the distraction to pull my hand from his and dart out of the elevator. Of course he was close behind since we both lived on the same floor.
“You know, we’ve lived next door for going on two years and this is the first time we’ve spoken to each other?” He asked this conversationally, with a lilt of humor in his voice.
“Hmm,” was all I said, placing my takeout on the floor and digging in my bag for my key.
I did know it. But I didn’t think it was all that remarkable. He was a good looking playboy who likely spent more on one bottle of moisturizer than I did on all my hygiene products over the course of a year. I was a mousy, low maintenance hermit. The chances that we moved in similar social circles or had similar interests were not good. Not good at all. Why talk to a person if you had nothing in common with them? What would that accomplish other than a painfully stunted conversation?
Successfully unlocking the door, I tossed the keys back in my bag and picked up the food. Kurt hovered at my side, leaning against the wall. Again I could feel his eyes on me. Rather than ignoring him and ducking into my apartment, I turned slightly and gave him a small wave.
“Well, I’m going to go inside now and eat this food,” I held the bag up as evidence, “See you around.”
“We should trade numbers,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his phone, “so we can arrange dinner.”
My smile morphed into a frown and I stared at him, my next words slipping out before I could catch them. “Are you serious?”
Kurt’s eyes flickered to mine, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; “Of course I’m serious. I never joke about dinner.”
He said the words so smoothly, like words should be said, like an expert in banter and flirtation. My heart gave an uncomfortable twist then took off at a gallop. It was one thing to trade polite chit-chat in the elevator with my beautiful neighbor when I was certain it would lead nowhere. It was quite another to give aforementioned beautiful neighbor my telephone number and, therefore, permission to contact me for a shared meal.
I couldn’t do that.
I couldn’t.
My table manners were terrible. I’d never been taught.
I sucked at conversation and therefore always ended up tongue tied, silent, and beet red.
I cussed like a sailor.
My wardrobe consisted of black, gray, or brown pants, skirts, and tights; and oversized black, grey, or brown sweaters. I was wallpaper. This was purposeful.
I stared at his phone with helpless panic—confused, horrified. I waited a beat for him to say, “Just kidding!”
But he didn’t. Instead he lifted his gaze to mine. It moved over my face then back to my eyes—his were still easy and friendly—and I was paralyzed.
His smile widened. “You are too cute…” he said these words like he was talking to himself.
I started, flinched, my eyelashes fluttering at the unexpected compliment, and I gave into the panic. Looking everywhere but at him, I darted into my apartment, saying lamely, “Uh, my phone is broken or needs repair or got lost, so I’ll just give you the number later, when it’s fixed or I find it. But it was really nice meeting you. Goodbye.”
And, with that, I shut the door in Kurt’s face.
***
New York’s Finest
March 13
If Sporty Spice married a hobbit, had a three-way with a leprechaun, and then gave birth to a sexy, bizarre baby (paternity unknown)
Guess who was spotted this week looking equal parts hot and ridiculous in every kind of synthetic fabric currently manufactured by the miracle of chemical engineering? None other than Colin Farrell (or his doppelganger) down near the Village. Obviously no one loves him. Friends don’t let friends dress like this (unless it’s cosplay or part of a bedroom role-play fantasy). If you take a look at the pictures above, you’ll certainly understand my horror at finding anyone willing to wear lime green Lycra and speedo running shorts. The only explanation I can think of is that he was drunk (you know how those Irish enjoy their whiskey… and beer… and any and all alcohol).
I could have forgiven the spandex, but I can’t forgive the freaky feet. Toe-shoes are never okay. They’re weird and disturbing and really, really pretentious. And, as an aside, for those of you who are interested in looking like a hobbit, this particular brand of toe-shoe will set you back $635. That’s right! You too can look like a weird little man for the very low price of six hundred and thirty five dollars!!! WTF?
Also, for the record, Colin needs to invest in a cup. Yes, I enjoy the occasional bulge, but this bulge was verging on concealed weapon status. If he continues to run around in these spandex shorts, he will only have himself to blame for the gropings. Goodness, if I’d been within arms-reach I definitely would have copped a feel. Amiright, ladies? You all know how I like my bangers and mash and there’s nothing more Irish than sausage!
Booyah!
<3 The Socialmedial
ite
