When I became friends with Sarah, I never expected her value to extend to me.
When my best friend (we'll call her Sarah) first started playing pickleball, she was terrible. “The only reason I get invited is because I'm on TV,” she said.
I had never thought of that, but after she pointed it out, I did think. Ah, that may be true.
Sarah, simply by being famous, was worth more than a player with a better serve or a smaller dink.
And I may have been a polite addition, simply for the fact that I was close to Sarah.
The group we were invited to join was called Lez Pickle, which is exactly what it sounds like: a group of lesbians playing pickleball. In the early days, we would take a photo at the end of every meeting. That photo was posted to Instagram, and then most of the members reposted it. We then got direct messages from lesbians who were curious about pickleball saying, literally and essentially, “I want to join!” I think all of these inquiries were born out of a genuine interest in pickleball, and I also think that having celebrities in the photos gave us a little something extra. We weren't just a bunch of sweaty lesbians with paddles. We had Sarah, and we had other actresses. We had fame.
Sarah and I met a few years ago on a dating app called Raya. It's an app used by celebrities, but not just celebrities. Anyone Raya deems worthy of inclusion can join. It's unclear whether this is based on follower counts, IMDB credits, or the personal preferences of Raya's gatekeepers.
I felt like I was at rock bottom, and Sarah was on a pedestal that I had created in my mind, with everyone else on that pedestal next to her who had achieved the success I wanted.
When I first saw Sarah’s profile, I immediately knew she was the adult version of the unforgettable character I played as a kid. The first message I sent her was, “I’m asking you the same question I’m asking everyone now: are you still sane?” Because it was COVID and none of us were sane at the time. I don’t remember exactly how she responded, but I do remember thinking she was funny and smart. After a few exchanges, I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk (this was my COVID killer move) and she replied, “I feel like a friend.” I replied, “Great!” And we started corresponding for the next four months in the same city. At the time, I was living in a crappy apartment, seeing other people maybe once a week, and feeling depressed and unsuccessful. Sarah was an incredibly loving and understanding person who always cheered me up. Also, it was just fun to talk to her. We got each other’s jokes.
At first, Sarah's fame was exotic to me. I'd never had famous friends before. And it was funny. She was mentioning Hollywood stuff, like how her makeup stylist had bought her some mint candy, and I was like, “Wow, that's so cool!” What an extraordinary lifeFame should be alluring, but the allure was even more so because of how I saw myself at the time: I felt like I was at rock bottom, and Sarah was on a pedestal that I had constructed in my mind, with everyone else on that pedestal next to her who had achieved the success I wanted.
Writing about Sarah's fame and its impact feels both natural (with all due respect to celebrities, of course) and taboo, and may give the impression that I care too much about fame and therefore am shallow.
I'm going to try to be as honest as I can in this essay, not just because honesty is a good thing, but because when you talk about fame, I feel a strong urge to be a little dishonest. I should tell you that fame doesn't affect me, but sometimes morning It's affecting me. In other words, I'm conflicted. Of course I am. We live in a world that's trained to value fame. and You shouldn't appreciate that. These are conflicting messages.
The first time I met Sarah, it was at her house. She told me she liked olives, so I bought her some. By that time, I was in love with her. Sure, I heard her say she wanted to be friends, but was I really listening? The most accurate way to put it is that 50 percent of me was listening to her. The other 50 percent was fantasizing that one day she would change her mind and ask to date me.
As I spent time with Sarah at her house, I noticed that it had the things that most people have: a kitchen with a sink. An Amazon package. Sunglasses on the counter. We talked for a while on the couch. Like most people, Sarah was sitting in the living room chatting with friends. The more time I spent in Sarah's private space, the more I forgot she was a celebrity. But when I left, I remembered again.
People react differently to Sarah in public. Some ask to take a photo, which I always do. Others say, “I love your show,” and look at me as if they're trying to see if I'm famous, too. Many notice her and then look away as if she's as inconsequential as a lamppost. Sometimes the motivation behind this “look the other way” move is politeness; fans don't want to interrupt Sarah while she's filling up her water bottle on the pickleball court or shopping for pants. Other times the motivation is feigned indifference; people who feign indifference are quicker to look away.
In all these people, I see myself.
When I became friends with Sarah, I didn't expect her value to extend to me. To put it bluntly, I am more valuable because my friend is famous. Sometimes, people are suddenly nicer to me when they know I know Sarah. Sometimes, they invite me out and ask, “Do you want to come?” When I tell Sarah that I'm just a pawn in someone else's ploy to bask in the glow of her celebrity, she is quick to point out that she isn't. that Famous. “I'm not Beyoncé,” she says.
Sometimes it feels like Sarah is the one who's least aware of her fame. When I ask her about it, she sort of shrugs. “I try not to think about it,” she says. “If I think about it for too long, it makes me feel weird.”
Our social structure is a pyramid: the most powerful people sit at the top and the least powerful people sit at the bottom.
When it comes to the subject of fame, our expectations are unrealistic. On the one hand, we think we should all be prepared to be one. On the other hand, we actually do not have Everything is one. And by the way, it is humans who created this system. It's not because we're stupid, it's because we're animals. Like all tribes, we follow a pecking order. Dominance in non-human societies is usually tied to fertility. In our society, dominance is defined by money, prestige, beauty, and other currencies of power.
Here's the reality: our social structure is a pyramid, with the most powerful people at the top and the least powerful people at the bottom.
This is the delusion. We want to believe that this structure is not our birthright. We want to believe that this is our confusion. We want to believe that our true shape is a circle, a big kumbaya circle of oneness.
Of course, on a spiritual level we are all one – I am like you, you are like the tree, the tree is like the ant, the ant is like Sarah – but if this was reflected in the way we treat each other, we wouldn't be talking about it so much.
When I was in high school, a friend of mine asked me, “If I had a perfectly round face, would we be friends?” She would puff out her cheeks as if she couldn't imagine a round face. I thought her question was a waste of time, because it's theoretically impossible to assume that removing one part of a person would keep everything else the same.
But what my high school friend was really asking was, “Can you look beyond the surface of things and see inside?” And the implication is that the inside is more important than the outside.
Is that true or are both important?
We live in a culture that is completely obsessed with appearances and yet we don't think we should acknowledge that it does matter. We say “it's what's on the inside that counts” not because we feel that it's true, but because we want it to be true.
My favourite pages Us Weekly These are videos of celebrities pumping gas, paying at a parking meter, or performing other basic human activities, posted with the caption, “Stars are just like us!”
As an alcoholic who has told himself this for years, do not have As a lesbian who has a drinking problem and has told herself this for years, do not have As a lesbian and someone who walks around the house saying she's “okay.” do not have Now, here's a question: if the stars are really like us, do we need to be reminded of that every week?
I've been playing pickleball for about a year now, and while I was writing this essay, I played a game with two actresses. At one point, one of them made a joke that got me thinking, “Wow, I'm not a big fan of pickleball.” Did I laugh more because this person is an actress?
And I thought, If you're asking yourself this question, the answer is probably yes.
And I thought, Or maybe I just felt that way because I was writing this essay trying to understand how I feel about fame.
And I thought, I've been playing pickleball with a lot of actresses lately.
Swan Huntley's novels I Want You More, Going Clean with Stevie Green, The Goddess, and We can be beautifulShe is also a writer and illustrator of dark humor. Bad mood book and You're Grounded: The anti-self-help book to keep you grounded. Swan holds an MFA from Columbia University, a fellowship from MacDowell and Yaddo, and lives in Los Angeles.
