It’s not surprising that I’m proud of my 15-year-old daughter for loads of things. She’s smart, talented, funny, empathetic, kind, driven, and possesses a wicked, sarcastic sense of humor. But what I might actually be most proud of her for—and what won’t be surprising to those who know me—is this: she’s a superfan.
Superfan [soo-per-fan] noun
A person who exhibits
unhealthy obsession unusually high enthusiasm for something, such as a celebrity, television show, or sports team but totally not a sports team if you are me or my daughter.
I’ve been a superfan since I was about four-years-old and covered my Donny Osmond album cover with purple crayoned lips.
I may or may not have memories of kissing it with my own lips as well.
At age four.
When I was 10-years-old I vacillated between panic and hysteria when I happened to be at Magic Mountain the day Scott Baio was performing. Panic because my hair was in stupid DOG EARS and hysteria because part of me actually thought that despite the questionable hairdo he would certainly fall in love with me on the spot.
I was 10.
True love is irrational when you’re a superfan.
From Baio to LeBon, Thirtysomething to Parenthood, the hours I’ve devoted to tears, daydreams, night dreams, and
embarrassing compulsive behavior over the years are countless.
And my daughter is totally following in my footsteps.
For her it started at age 8 with with Camp Rock, understandably.
Flash forward seven years and you’ll see that her interests have also matured.
For the past few months, my daughter has devoted her life to The Flash, and instead of being annoyed by it or upset that Grant Gustin is a name used in this house far more frequently than say, Mom, I get it.
I not only get it, but I encourage it.
Where some people see trivial obsession, I see dedication and commitment; two qualities important to getting ahead in this world.
Where some may see wasted time, I see hours spent honing research skills and fostering imagination.
What some call frivolous, I call fruitful.
And social media has made it so much more exciting for us to be superfans nowadays.
I mean, besides the fact that we now can also be legit-but-totally-non-threatening stalkers, there’s the possibility of actual, call-in-a-defibrilator interaction, or if you’re me or my daughter, the reality.
That’s right. Thanks to Twitter, my daughter and I are practically BFFs with a whole bunch of people we worship.
Over the past few years I’ve been retweeted by people my 14-year-old self would flatline to be noticed by, like Scott Baio, John Stamos, Jon Cryer, Minnie Driver, and Dirty Dancing director Kenny Ortega, as well as show runners and writers from favorite shows like Parenthood, About A Boy, Veep, Grandfathered, and most recently, This Is Us.
I mean, clearly it means
I spend too much time on Twitter these people want me, either personally (Stamos) or professionally, right?
And – proud parent alert!! – my daughter currently runs three fan accounts for The Flash on Twitter and Tumblr, and over the past month has been retweeted by various members of the cast pretty regularly, which leads to about 15 minutes of hyperventilation and then at least an hour of her being completely useless.
It’s exhausting being so devoted.
Sure, she inherited my brown hair, my freckles, my rapid-fire and two-volumes-too-loud method of speaking, my aversion to risk taking, and my mad tap-dancing skills, but knowing she’ll carry on this tradition of loyal and unwavering devotion is the legacy that I am, naturally, the most proud of.
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