He (very rudely) got married on my birthday a couple of years ago. He and his wife just had their second child together by IVF. He’ll be turning forty-two next October. I’ve listened to his podcasts (yes, plural, he hosts two [and also a Patreon]) every week, twice a week, for seven or eight years. I’ve listened to every podcast episode where he’s been a guest. I’ve watched the videos on his YouTube channel to the bottom of the list and back up again. I’ve read articles that have been written about him, read reviews of his work, and seen every movie and TV show he’s ever been cast in (no matter how small the role). I know his specials word-for-word. I know his style, his cadence, and I’ve watched him refine it over the last decade. I’ve seen him on tour countless times and in numerous cities (I drove seven hours to see him one time). He’s not only my favorite comedian—but my one and only celebrity crush.
I had an elevator pitch ready to go. I knew if I ever met him, I would have approximately ten seconds MAX of his attention—and I somehow needed to figure out how to convey everything that I’ve ever wanted to tell him into that timeframe. I’d want to tell him how much his work has made me laugh, how much his conversations about the creative process have inspired me, how much his observations about life, religion, and culture have made me feel seen as the child of an immigrant, how much his energy and work ethic have challenged me as a writer, how episodes of his show and clips of his standup have gotten me through the toughest times, and how him and the friends he has curated around him have made me feel like I belong (despite not necessarily being their “target demographic”)…
I daydreamed about what it would be like when I’d finally meet him and share that perfectly crafted sentence. I wondered if it would be in passing: if I would run into him out in the world somewhere, and if I’d have to stop him and ask for a moment of his time—or if, perhaps, we would be introduced somehow, and his attention would briefly be on me, and I could launch into “Listen—HUGE fan—I just have to tell you…” I wondered if I would even be able to get my pitch out, or if I would just be speechless—or even worse, if I’d get emotional. I’ve met plenty of celebrities over the years, and I’ve always kept my cool; I’ve never been star-struck, or overly excited, or “fan-girled” over anyone. But with this guy—I’ve genuinely had to take into consideration the very real possibility that I might cry, puke, and then pass out, all within the ten seconds I was supposed to deliver my prepared speech.
But fortunately, none of that happened when I met him the other night.
I was at a comedy club in Nashville with a couple colleagues. We had to be on our best behavior; the shows were high-security and completely sold-out—the only reason we could be there was because we were on the guest list.
The line stretched outside and wrapped around the building. They locked up everyone’s phones in those little padded bags. We were seated up in the balcony, and stuck around after the show to talk to some of the team, and…to meet the headliner. As audience members filtered out, we were led around back to where the green room was, and I saw my chance—but it’s not what you’re thinking.
I booked it for the back door of the club. The glowing red “EXIT” sign pulled me to itself like an evil banshee to the void. My friends yelled at my disappearing back, demanding I return, but I pushed the heavy steel door open and was met with a rush of Nashville’s midnight wind. I stepped out into the darkness and yelled back at them, “I don’t wanna be in the way, it’s fine!”
I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t meet him. What if it didn’t live up to my expectations? What if he wasn’t who I thought he would be? What if I’d unfairly idealized him all these years, and made him out to be something that can’t even exist? He’s been my celebrity crush—my hero, even—for so long, I was suddenly terrified that everything he represented to me was simply a figment of my imagination. I desperately went to sabotage meeting him before the fantasy I had perfected in my mind would be shattered… But before I let the gravity of the back door fully pull itself shut, I caught its edge with the tip of my fingers—I stuck my head in just far enough to tell my friends that I would wait for them at the car, when suddenly, *he* stepped out of the green room and found us, mid-fight, on opposite ends of the hallway. He stood between me and my coworkers for a moment, confused… And I think I blacked out, because I don’t remember exactly what happened next.
But the next thing I remember, I was back inside the dim light of the club, standing by my coworkers, shaking *his* hand, and telling him my name. While he was meeting the other two, I leaned back against the wall just in case anyone could see my knees shaking. We all hung around and chatted for a while; we talked about the show, talked about our roles in the comedy industry, talked about mutual friends and connections…
My elevator pitch went out the window. When I saw him, I didn’t even remember I HAD an elevator pitch—my entire inner monologue was screaming survival instructions at my brain’s operations unit: “BE COOL. BE CHILL. DON’T CRY. BE COOL…” And I was! I didn’t cry, I didn’t puke, and I didn’t pass out (other than blacking out briefly when I first saw him). I was immensely professional, put-together, and eloquent… And thus, he doesn’t know that I know his and his wife’s wedding date (or that it’s on my birthday). He doesn’t know that I’ve listened to his content on roadtrips, while making dinner, while doing my opening chores at the comedy club back in Chicago—he doesn’t know that I bought tickets and attended four separate shows on just one of his tours… He has no idea that I’m his biggest fan, and he’ll never know.
They say don’t meet your hero because you’ll be disappointed. And while he was clearly tired, worn out from a day of travel, exhausted from having a newborn in the house (and another kid under the age of two), drained from just performing two back-to-back and SOLD-OUT shows in Nashville… I wasn’t disappointed. It certainly wasn’t all I had cracked it up to be in the infinity times I imagined it in my head over the last decade—but, it was real.
I actually met my celebrity crush.
Sophia (‘19) double-majored in theatre and religion and insists that her life is a “storybook.” She lives in an apartment above a flower shop in downtown Chicago and has multiple roles working across the arts in comedy, music, theatre, film, and visual art—though her greatest passion is writing. Her work includes stage plays, screenplays, and articles, focusing mostly on cultural trends, comedy, reviews, and religious satire. She loves road trips, visiting her family in Grand Rapids, hunting for the perfect latte, and rescuing plants from the flower shop’s dumpster.
