At some crucial moment in your life, you’ll realize what I realized when my life crossed paths with a celebrity: I’m not famous. And although the truth is as real as God, I wouldn’t recommend seeking out a celebrity against which to compare yourself in order to weigh its validity.
There my wife and I were in the Orlando airport, lined up to obtain our boarding passes for a flight back from a vacation/work training trip, when suddenly a band of five or so suited men severed the tightly knit boundary of bodies, only to reveal their true purpose when one escaped for a cup of joe: in the protective circle stood one Joseph Walter Jackson, father of pop legend Michael Jackson. As if the rest of the crowd, each burdened with gargantuan carry ons, was not present, he and his security escorts casually sauntered to the front and received their first-class passes without trouble.
Later he also arrived in Newark Airport, where my wife and I saw him and his frightening posse depart in someone or some company’s large SUV.
I’m sorry my celebrity story is so mundane, but it confirmed to me the truth that celebrity life is mundane, topped with more social and security burdens than the rest of the populace. For now, I’m perfectly content not being famous. Actually, I prefer it.