Well, We're All Pink on the Inside

When I was 12 years old, I was desperately in love with Thomas Ian Nicholas. My friend Lauren and I collected pictures and tidbits of information from magazines, but it just wasn’t satisfying enough. Our dream was to someday meet him and hear him say, “Kelly (or Lauren, but hopefully Kelly), run away with me and be mine forever.” Well, last week I was on MySpace, and who did I have a friend request from? Yes, Thomas himself. I wanted to hug my 12-year-old self and prance around jubilantly with her. O...M…G…what should I do? I clicked to send Thomas a message and anxiously drummed my fingers on the keyboard, trying to think of the best way to e-connect with him without being a total e-tard. I settled on: “Hi, I just thought I’d tell you that I had a huge crush on you when I was in 6th grade. Good to (sort of) meet you all these years later. Take care.” I’m fully aware that I looked like a weirdo, and that he may have been offended that I’m no longer crushin’ on him, but I had to do it.

The next day he responded, “Thanks.” I had hoped for more than one word and was a little pouty. With that message went my last little shred of celebrity awe, and I knew that even T.I.N. was just like anyone else and wrote terse responses to the strangers who send MySpace messages declaring love, lust, or, in this case, former love(ish).

I wasn’t too much for celebrity crushes when I was young, so that’s why this one stood out. Despite that, until my twenties, I at least was impressed by the idea of celebrity. That deteriorated after a couple encounters over a few years while I was out in DC.

When I was out one night, the guitarist from a famous band wanted to buy me a drink. I told him no thanks, I was the D.D. He got all indignant and said, “Excuse me?!” I repeated what I said and he retorted, “When a man offers to buy you a drink, you need to take it.” That set me off. He shouted, “Do you know who I am?!” I let out something between a snort and guffaw, and he spat, “I’m (name withheld)!!!!” I narrowed my eyes, squared my shoulders and spat back, “Do you know who I am? I’m KELLY VANDERSLUIS!!!” It was clearly time to go at that point.

I have also had separate encounters with two very well-known whiny singer/song-writer guitar playing pansies. Both leered, attempted fondling, and generally freaked us all out like we thought only drunken frat guys could do. So, after all that, my friends and I have learned that money and one’s name on a CD section at Target or movie poster do not make people any different than those we already know.

Oh, and Thomas, you're welcome to run away with someone else now. We're so over.