I Wanna Be Like...

A bunch of people, it turns out.

On a chair in my bedroom, there sits a big blue book called The Secret Language of Birthdays. If it sounds familiar, there’s a good chance you’ve encountered it before — it’s one of those titles that’s always kicking around, at a friend’s house, in a bargain bin, or on display at Urban Outfitters.

I do not like this book. I don’t remember how it came into my possession. Yet for some unknown reason, I’ve hauled my copy from dwelling to dwelling since I was in high school. The dust jacket left the building two apartments ago, after an unfortunate incident involving dog vomit. Apparently the canine isn’t a fan, either.

This book is offensive. This cheetah is faux.

Officially, I take issue with its reductive descriptions and cryptic warnings. (“If you take the wrong turn, you may find yourself shut out and unappreciated, on a downward spiral…”) But I suspect my distaste has more to do with how the book describes me.

The listing for my birthday includes an admonishment: “…in your admiration of others, you may fail to fully develop the potential latent in yourself.”

This is one of the more insulting things you can say to a person while describing what makes them individual.

It is also entirely true.

When it comes to rampant admiration, I am guilty as charged. There is a very long catalog of humans I’ve wanted to be, or at least be like: My kindergarten classmate with the sparkly purple sneakers. Daria Morgendorffer. Multiple characters from Sex and the City, at different times, for different reasons. Nora Ephron. Issa Rae. Dr. Orna Guralnik from Couples Therapy. I could go on, but I’ll spare you.

“I don’t like to smile unless I have a reason.” — Daria Morgendorffer

This particular feeling is less about envy and more about escapism. It’s about wanting to discover how it might feel to slip into another’s experience, a different incarnation, if only for a day. It’s also the chance to climb out of the boxes that confine us, whether they are of our own or someone else’s making. The smart one. The quiet one. The funny one. The athletic one… Like the universe subscribes to the Spice Girl model of identity.

A brief survey of my brain trust revealed I am not alone.

“I want to be Emma Thompson,” said one friend, without hesitation. “She’s so talented and seems like she has her shit together. And she’s aging gracefully.”

“Pretty much every professional musician,” offered another. “But it’s not about having what they have — if you handed me their careers, I’d still have stage fright. The fantasy is really about getting to be them, or at least more like them, on a fundamental level.”

“Rihanna, Oprah, Tracee Ellis Ross,” supplied a third friend. She paused before adding, “It probably says something that none of my would-be’s are people I actually know.”

I have a pretty weird job. It’s not as bizarre as, say, being a professional bridesmaid or a mattress tester or the person who pens the names for nail polish colors. But over the last few years, the bulk of my work life was spent ghostwriting celebrity books.

Even with experience, it’s always a bit surreal to find myself sitting across from famous faces. But over the course of the pandemic, this was thrown into stark(er) relief. While sheltering in place, without the company of friends and family, the only people I regularly spent time with were celebrities.

My famous “colleagues” FaceTimed me from their boats, or their bright kitchens with marble countertops, or their park-like yards, pools glistening in the background.

“What is my life?” I’d mutter, from the corner of my one-bedroom apartment, my boyfriend yell-talking at his monitor on the other side of the room.

It may seem like I’m headed in a certain direction here — that I did or didn’t want to be like them — but that’s not where this is going. (Though I’ll admit, the pools looked nice.) I’ve been fortunate to get to know household names as human beings, separate from the trappings of fame and success. And I can say, without hesitation, that everyone — including those at the very top of their games — shares in the feeling of wanting to be someone else.

A couple years back, in the pre-Covid times, I met a Very Important Executive for drinks. I spent days overthinking my outfit. By any measure, this was a person whose existence I might like to inhabit. From a distance, she seemed to have it all figured out.

She arrived looking every bit the part — shiny blowout, impeccable taste, adorable family photo as the background on her phone. And then we got to talking.

“Oh! To be single!” she said, clutching her heart like she was mortally wounded. “I am so jealous of your life.”

My dating life, at the time, involved seeing a guy who was proud of the way the green mold had overtaken his shower. It looked like something out of Ghostbusters, an otherworldly creature hellbent on consuming us all. (The relationship didn’t last, but the memories are forever.)

That was the day I realized that whenever you have two people sitting across a table from one another, there is a more than decent chance that each of them wants, in some way, something the other person has.

This is the definition of comedy. It is also a mark of being human.

I’ve thought a lot about this topic in the months since. I’ve wondered if anyone is content, if everyone is striving. I’ve pondered how the grass is invariably greener with a filter. I’ve read a lot about the concept of no-self, which suggests there is nothing about our human essence that is fixed or permanent — we are constantly changing. By “we” I mean all of us. Even the people we want to be.

I’ve discovered that if you can manage to cut through all the noise, taking stock of your own personal roster of estimable folks is a worthwhile exercise.

We admire people who have taken chances and defied the odds. Who make us laugh and think and cry. Who share their gifts and leave their mark. Who leave the world a little bit better for having been here.

We admire people who have the qualities we wish to cultivate in ourselves.

In a way, this tells us everything we need to know. Not about them, but about us.

Under close inspection, my life is a museum filled with relics of the people I’ve wanted to be, the unintentional heroes of a story they’ve played no role in writing. But I have learned from them all, alchemizing their influence into my own way of being. They haven’t prevented me from growing — if anything, they’ve helped me land a little closer to myself.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the Serpentfire Tarot Deck by Devany Amber Wolfe

Approximately one million years ago, I worked as an assistant at a record label, where I learned two valuable truths. The first was that my future was not in artist management. The second was a nugget offered up by my boss, who ran the whole operation.

He was an unflappable type who handled every situation with a calm, measured approach. One afternoon, an executive ran into his office, on the verge of a meltdown. An artist who was headlining a tour had ditched the band and run off to Vegas, with no intention of performing at their next show.

My boss sighed. “What is there to ever be stressed about?” he said, waving his hands in a show of nonchalance. “Get them on the phone.” He shot me a knowing glance before delivering the last bit. “When there’s an issue, you just use your words! You communicate.”

It was kind of a duh statement, but the confidence of his delivery immediately put me at ease. Over the course of the next few hours, he talked everyone down from their respective ledges and convinced the artist to take the next flight out. Day saved, disaster averted. I’ve never forgotten it.

Such is the energy of the Ace of Swords. In tarot, swords represent the element of air, symbolizing intellect — our thoughts and dreams. Like air, these things are invisible, but essential. This card reminds us that when it comes to new ways of seeing, it is always within our power to open the door.

Like a sword, communication has the ability to cut through all the noise and arrive at the heart of the matter. To draw a line in the sand. To decide what may continue and what must come to a stop. Our words — and the thoughts, feelings and intentions behind them — have power. Often much more than we think.

Imagine you currently hold a sword in your hand, though it’s not a weapon as much as a tool. This sword is a little piece of magic that can allow you to express yourself openly and honestly, to share whatever you’ve been holding back. It could mean talking to someone, or writing your feelings down on paper. It could mean finally starting that creative project, or finding the courage to share it. Sometimes, communication is as much about what you don’t say as what you do.

As my former boss would tell you, such a sword already exists. It is your words.

In the days ahead, remember that communication is also a gift. What you put out there inevitably takes on a life of its own, unraveling in the minds and hearts of those who absorb it. Don’t be afraid to be generous.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this letter and would like to receive future installments in your inbox every Sunday, please consider becoming a subscriber.