Fake it till you make it is a philosophy that serves in literally every aspect of life. Slap a smile on your face and your brain will eventually think you’re happy. That’s not just me talking; it’s science. Walk around in those Nikes until you feel like going for a run. Dress for the job you want. I was an actress for a big chunk of my adolescence, so you could say I am an expert in harnessing the power of imagination to get yourself where you want to be.
This morning I am also harnessing the power of my flat iron, a newly sharpened brow pencil, and a strawberry Pop-Tart. I need to show up for work looking like a winner, so I’ve been standing in front of my closet for ten minutes, re-ironing my hair and hoping the right outfit will reveal itself to me. I have a meeting with my boss to talk about next steps for my new project. If it’s green-lit, True Story will be the first script I’ve brought to the studio that will actually be made into a movie. If it’s made, it will make me. Today I need an outfit that whispers success really loudly. I don’t miss much about being on TV, but on mornings like this I do miss the costume department. I want someone to tell me what scene I’ll be walking through today and exactly how I should look.
I sort through my work clothes, blouses and skirts in shades of blue and gray. They’re freshly pressed and definitely make me seem competent but make me look more like a flight attendant than an airline CEO. Next to them is my dating wardrobe, which I’ve chosen with more care than any costume department ever did. My first-date dress is green and white pin-striped and hits right below my knees. It’s a dress you can’t argue with. It’s dignified and says I’m feminine but not trying too hard to be sexy. It says I’m a person you might consider kissing and then later introducing to your grandmother. When my future partner and I tell our kids about our first date, that’s how I want him to describe me: kissable and Grandma-worthy. Think Reese Witherspoon in basically any movie.
The rest of the dresses also each have a specific purpose. Second date—show a little more skin. Third date—invite a kiss. And the all-important fourth date—Enter an Actual Relationship. I finish my Pop-Tart, wipe my hands on my pajamas, and pull out the fourth-date dress. It is, in a word, sensational. It’s red and silk, not entirely appropriate for August in Los Angeles, but it’s a deal-closer. The tags still dangle down the back because I haven’t actually had a fourth date since I got serious about my Manifest a Solid Partner project last year. I bought it because I hoped it would bring new energy to the consistently disastrous fourth date. Sometimes it’s the guy who blows it—he’s rude to the waiter or admits to owning an accordion. Any mention of NASCAR and I’m out. More often than not, it’s me. I get comfortable, I forget to be Reese Witherspoon, and he sees me for the B-teamer that I am. By the fourth date, I get impatient to just make it a thing already. I talk too much or too fast. A few times I’ve suggested plans way too far in the future, as in “My boss is getting married next spring, you should come!”
Oof!
I hold up the red dress and look in the mirror. Yes, I think. This is the kind of energy I want to bring to my meeting this morning. Today I’m going on a fourth date with my career. I love this thought so much that I take the dress off its hanger and rip off the tags. “Showtime,” I say to my reflection.
I’ve been trying to get a script green-lit ever since I was promoted to creative executive two years ago. The scripts I’ve brought in have been low-stakes romantic comedies that I thought were pretty good, but none of them compare to True Story. This script is a total game changer. There’s a tenderness to the writing and a truth to the humor that has its hooks in me. I even dreamed about it this morning, and I woke up laughing, chest vibrating from the force of it, tears in my eyes. I do that sometimes, laugh in my sleep. I don’t know how I’ll explain this to a partner if I find one.
I tie my sash in a careful square knot and take a second Pop-Tart and a mug of coffee onto the front porch just as the sky starts to brighten on Montana Avenue. Being a funny kid on TV got me the down payment on this little Spanish house. It has a big porch and a tile roof and a rounded front door painted a deep French blue. I am training bougainvillea to crawl up the porch and along the roofline. Bougainvillea feels like a kindergarten art project, little petals made out of fine pink paper that blow in the wind but are, oddly, fine in the rain.
I’m two miles from the beach, but if Pop Rocks had been picked up for more seasons or had been syndicated, I’d be down on Pacific Coast Highway listening to the waves with the cast of Friends. It’s fine. Four years of my adolescence as barbecue-sauce-in-her-braces Janey Jakes was plenty. The thing I’ve learned about funny is that it can be a little reckless. To be laughing is to be a little out of control. And certainly, when trying to Manifest a Solid Partner, it is imperative that you keep funny in check. You’re funny, I’d like to procreate with you, said exactly no man ever.
