If YMFT’s loyal readers know anything about me by now — besides the fact that the circumference of my head is the same as a prize-winning watermelon, that I only use Citron vodka in my Appletinis, and that I will not cook anything that has more than eight ingredients in its recipe — it’s the fact that I am a FANGIRL.
I think this 2012 YMFT post about being retweeted from my pre-teen obsession proved it early on.
I’m not ashamed of it, either.
I may be — cough — middle aged but I still have a healthy connection to my 12-year-old self.
Do I trot her out and put her on display more than the average — cough — middle aged woman?
OF COURSE I DO!
I mean, why grow up now?
Loyal readers know that for Christmas my husband gifted me with meet & greet tickets to Rob Lowe’s one-man show in May (for those of you just joining the class, don’t worry, you’re now all caught up).
May 20th seemed forever away back then, but let me tell you, on December 25th my heart was already pounding in my chest at the thought of breathing the same air as him, not to mention actually touching him.
Sure, that could’ve been a bit of fear at the definite possibility of being incarcerated in fangirl jail after not detaching myself from his body, but nevertheless, I was giddy.
A bit of backstory to help make this more clear:
I was a teenage girl in the 80s.
End of backstory.
But I’ll be honest, while I definitely appreciated all he had to offer back in the 80s and definitely swooned over him in Teen Beat, I was more of an Andrew McCarthy girl.
Hey, I knew Rob Lowe was out of my league way back then, even if my league was imaginary.
Over the past 15 years or so, though, he’s secured a top 3 spot in my husband-endorsed Hall Pass, and it has everything to do with the charm, wit, and self-deprecating humor he’s brought to the roles he’s played in all the recent movies and TV shows he’s been a part of.
And by everything I mean everything.
Fast-forward to May 20th (which, BTW, will forever be ROB LOWE DAY in my memory, celebrated with google images and candlelight) and after zooming by the many images of me stressing over what to wear, how to do my hair, if the shoes that went with my outfit would make me taller than him, what witty thing I’d say when face to face with him, you’d find me here, miraculously not still futzing with my hair, in a pair of whimsical earrings, ready to go on time, and even more miraculous — relatively calm.
And then you’d see me here, in row D, stroking my laminated VIP pass and whispering to my 15 year old self, we made it, kid and then telling her to calm the fuck down because her screaming was messing with the calm-and-cool vibe I was trying to project.
The show itself was — for lack of a more colorful word and because I don’t want to take the time to open thesaurus.com — totally AWESOME. He was hilarious and adorably self-deprecating. The stories he told about his 40-year career were captivating and entertaining. He was personable and genuine and not at all self-congratulatory (although I wouldn’t blame him if he was). Seeing him in the flesh smiling that trademark Rob Lowe shit-eating grin was INSANE, and I may or may not have teared up more than thrice.
And then it was time to
hold meet him … after about 200 people did before us, which gave me plenty of time to think of something witty — or even heartfelt — to say.
Something like, “loved you in Brothers & Sisters!” or “loved you in Tiger Beat!” or “of all the things you’ve done, the letter to your son as he left for college might be my favorite” or “my teenage self is wetting herself right now!”
Okay, maybe not that last one.
But when it was finally time for my allocated 5 second slot, I walked toward him — hand on chest to keep my pounding heart inside of it — and said this, not even in my real voice but a weird breathlessy one that apparently my brain decided was appropriate:
Hiiiiiiiiii Rob Lowe!!
Because clearly he wouldn’t have known who I was talking to with just “Hi, Rob.”
I believe we shook hands then.
Honestly I don’t remember.
I then told him I was there with my husband but that I didn’t want him in my picture.
It’s possible I may have still been holding his hand.
And then we had to turn to the camera and I remembered that I wanted to put my hand in my jumpsuit’s pocket to look all casual but it was all happening too quickly and I COULDN’T FIND MY POCKET and so I froze with my hand awkwardly on my thigh.
Two clicks later and it was done: my chance to change Rob Lowe’s life was LITERALLY over.
I know I said something else quickly because I have a vague recollection of my mouth moving while looking into his politician’s smile and crinkly, ageless eyes, but I have no clue what it was which is FINE WITH ME because I’m certain I’d be mortified if I knew.
Then I stood about 10′ away awkwardly looking on while my husband shook his hand, got his picture, and had what appeared to be A RELAXED VERBAL EXCHANGE with him, because he’s not me.
Was the meet & greet forced and rushed and anticlimactic?
Yes, no question.
Do I wish I’d hugged him so I could have a memory of his scent?
Yes, no question.
Did I leave an impression with my charm and witty banter?
Um, no, no question.
But DO I HAVE A NEW SCREENSAVER FOR LIFE?
You tell me.
Later, my husband told me he wished we’d gotten a photo of all three of us (they only allowed two and since I 86’d him out of mine he did the same, not in retaliation but because the man also loves Rob Lowe, which is one of a million reasons he’s my lobster).
I told him that was an adorable idea, but I’d have no use for a pic of the three of us so I’m good.
I mean, really, do I need anything more than this, other than perhaps a tattoo of it on my skin?
So yes, I met Rob Lowe.
Yes, that’s my hand around his waist (see my fingertips?) and yes, that’s my other hand glued to my thigh, mid-pocket (thankfully they cropped the photo, probably on purpose).
Yes, I remained composed and respectful, and other than my idiotic greeting probably didn’t seem like a weird fangirl.
And yes, my teenage self is still screaming HOLY FUCK in my ear every time I look at this picture.
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