Who's Stalking Me Now?

Snap, snap, snap, everywhere I go. It's such a nuisance, you have no idea. I can’t even leave my house without someone taking my photo. I go about my day, I hear that sound embedded in my brain. Click, click. I look around, I know they’re there, somewhere, hiding in the bushes, lurking behind shopping carts, balancing from telephone polls, hoping to steal a shameful shot of me, maybe make a few million bucks in exchange.


I don’t blame them. I’m fair game. I asked for it. I wanted to be a glamorous public figure, and with fame comes a price. So I’m a target of envy. So just about everyone wishes they could be me, if only for a day. So I get mobbed in shopping malls, accosted in restaurants, ridiculed if I go anywhere without my face on, as my dear mother used to say.  She never left home without full makeup on, and expected me to do the same.  Unwanted attention comes with celebrity. Duh!  I get what I deserve.

Still, can’t I retain just a little bit of dignity? Must I go through life, looking over my shoulder? Is nothing in my life sacred anymore?  I admit I’ve learned my lesson after one or two embarrassing interludes. Take the recent twelve-car collision I allegedly caused, but we know who’s really at fault. There I am, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, crawling down Ventura Boulevard, singing at the top of my lungs with the windows open. The wind toys with my stylish ’do. I begin to warble. “All the single ladies, all the single ladies."  In the midst of my private reverie, I hear it, the sound I’ve come to dread. Snap, snap, snap. I look to my left. I look to my right. I’m surrounded on all sides by stalkerazzi. They’ve caught me again, this time  howling like a coyote in heat.  Worst of all, there's a spinach leaf planted between my teeth. This is not how I wish to be remembered. I swerve to get away from them, but I can’t.

In horror, I slam on my brakes, causing a chain reaction of crunching automotive parts and shattering glass. By six o’clock, Ol’ Spinach Teeth is all over the Internet, starring in my own YouTube musical disaster.  As a precaution, I now carry dental floss in my glove compartment.  Dare I mention the nude showering debacle? In case you missed the headline splashed across the Enquirer last week, it went something like this: “Short Jewish Gal Takes Regrettable Shower.” I drop my towel, I forget to close the bathroom blinds, and see what happens? I suppose I'm partly to blame. I told my agent, “Get my stuff out there, Lou.” And did he ever. Just not the stuff I had in mind.

Now when I go out, I wear sunglasses, huge ones; bigger than my face, in an effort to remain in cognito. Hubby thinks I’m a little paranoid. No argument there. I’m pleased to report that so far, the disguise is working, more or less. On Saturday, I walked my dog and no one bothered me. Although I’m fairly certain my Vera Wang gown caught some neighbors off-guard.  I heard a few disparaging remarks. And yes, the term "major butt accentuation" floated in my direction, along with isolated cackling.  But hey, if I’m going to venture out in public, I plan to look nice, people. After all, it’s Awards Season.  Next time I make the Enquirer’s fashion spread, I prefer to land a caption that doesn’t snarl, “What Was She Thinking?”