I Don't Know What You Know Me From: Confessions of a Co-Star (25 page)

Sometimes I do wish I could just have the same job every day; it seems comforting to me—to work with the same people all the time, know your salary every year, know when you can take a vacation and plan it. I think I could get used to that. A little stability would be so different, and I find myself daydreaming about it, especially now that I’m married and have stepkids. I want to plan a vacation with them and actually be able to go on it. I can tell you one of the easiest ways to book an acting job, though: plan a trip that is very costly and nonrefundable; that’s a surefire way to get a great gig, works every time!

There are some jobs out there that I know I could never do at this point in my life. I could never scoop ice cream. It’s so frozen and hard, and I always marvel when people get a perfect scoop on my cone. My ice cream scoops come out the size of a large almond. I could never work in a drive-thru at a fast-food restaurant. I think they are real heroes. How do they keep all those orders and numbers in their heads? I mean, they are taking one order,
and
getting out change for another,
and
handing a bag of food out the window, it seems impossible to me. Schoolteacher? Thank you and God bless you all, but I don’t think I have what
it takes to keep my cool while little kids are literally peeing their pants in front of me, not to mention keeping all the food allergies straight these days. Any kind of ass-kicking job is out, for obvious reasons, but also I am not really good in potentially life-threatening situations. I freeze in peril, and that is not what you want from your cop/firefighter/paramedic. So here is a short list of jobs that I could see myself being good at and maybe even thriving in.

I AM AN ONLY CHILD. MY PARENTS HAD ME, AND
then, two years later, my mom got her tubes tied. That was a conscious decision. She told me that a year ago when I asked her why she and my dad didn’t have more kids. I know I have asked her this before and I don’t remember her answers, but this time she was honest with me, which is why it stood out. It wasn’t like she tried again and couldn’t; they didn’t want any more kids. My parents were done. They loved me and seemed to like being parents to me, but they didn’t want their life to change any more than it already had, so they decided to quit while they were ahead.

As I’m sure any other only child has experienced, people are always asking me what it was like to be an only child. But I don’t know how to answer that question. What is it like to be a girl? Or a boy? What is it like to breathe? I don’t know anything different. I just know what my life was like, but I don’t know what it was like compared with anything else. I’ve met loads of people who have siblings—in fact most of the people I know have brothers and sisters—and I don’t ask them all the time what it was like,
because I know they’d say, “I don’t know. What was it like to be an only child?” and we’re exactly where we started. People also tell me I don’t seem like an only child. I think it’s meant as a compliment, but what does that mean? I haven’t met loads of asshole only children. If you fill a room with all the assholes you know, I’d bet that most of them have siblings. How many people am I being compared with? Maybe we’ve gotten a bad reputation, but I don’t really understand why. If I act obnoxious, is it because I’m an only child? Maybe I’m just obnoxious. If a siblinged person acts obnoxious, maybe it’s because he/she has siblings. Perhaps that obnoxious middle child would have turned out to be the Dalai Frickin’ Lama if he/she was an only. Ever think of that?

When I ask people about their choice to have a second child, almost all of them say, “We just don’t want to have an only child.” Why? I can’t help but be slightly offended by this. People who seem already overwhelmed by their first baby are having another in order to ensure that they won’t have this freak-of-nature only child. I know that this fear doesn’t last, and often the second child is loved even more than the first, but still, I think I’m onto something. Is it that everyone is so obsessed with the love and excitement of the first baby that they are dying for another? Is it the same feeling you have after you get your first tattoo and then can’t wait to get more ink? Doubtful.

I understand that I will never know the closeness of siblings and sharing family commitments, dramas, responsibilities, but still, I think I am right that most second children are initially desired as a companion for the first and as backup for the future care of the aging parent(s). And yes, they can play with each other. I hear that a lot: “I wanted little Magenta to have someone to play with.” Uh … what about getting friends? Do you have such little faith that number one will be able to make a friend on its own that you must provide one vaginally? I don’t remember ever being bored. I didn’t need constant entertainment. In fact,
to this day I am pretty OK being on my own (solitary international vacations aside). My parents used to let me bring a friend or cousin on family vacations so I would have a playmate and they could have sex or whatever, but I was happy doing my own thing. I guess I am just wondering why the fear of just one? Does it seem sad or lonely? Are people afraid of being alone themselves, so they are projecting? Are they afraid that the first kid will be a stinker, so they want a backup? I am not a professional family-dynamicologist, but I think I make a decent argument for taking a chill pill, literally. Maybe go back on birth control until you really think this through.

There is one downside that I will take time to mention here because I (clearly) have spent a lot of time thinking about this. Aging/sick parents. I have been lucky so far, and my parents are still married and in general good health. So I don’t really worry about them being lonely or ailing, yet. Financially, they have told me not to worry, that they saved money for their golden years, but still, that can be a real burden on someone, financially, emotionally, and time-wise. To not have anyone to help, share the stress, share the cost of medical care, to have to go through all that alone does scare me. Again, I am lucky that my parents have taken care to ensure that I won’t be too financially burdened by their needs as they get older, but eventually I will be all alone with the memories of them and what our life was like as I was growing up. It feels a little depressing as I write it, but I have thought a lot about this, and again, there is no guarantee that if I had a brother or sister, he/she would be any help or comfort anyway. How many times do you hear people complain about their siblings and how little they help or how overbearing and controlling they are? I guess the point is you just never know what you’re going to get, but I don’t think an only child is the worst possible scenario out there.

Now, you might have already guessed, since I’ve been thinking
so much about this, that the topic I’m grappling with right now is whether or not to make one baby of my own. Especially as I transition in my career from best friend to wife/mom I can’t help but wonder if I should make that transition in real life as well. Is Hollywood trying to tell me something? My life is complicated. I have a husband. I have two older stepkids, two dogs, and a time-consuming career. I feel stretched so thin sometimes I don’t know if there’s time and space for a baby. But then what about not having one? Is it worth it to not have one just because I am so busy right now and pulled in so many directions? And is time a reason to have or not have a baby? Shouldn’t I be dying for one? I am not. I thought I would be married younger. I thought I would have kids when I was younger. I didn’t know I would be a late bloomer in every aspect of my life. Maybe if my stepkids were younger when I met my husband, they would have fulfilled my maternal instincts, but they were pretty much cooked when I came on the scene—though I like that they could potentially be scapegoats for my inability to make this most gigantic decision. I don’t know what to do, and I am waiting for a sign, since everyone and their baby tells me I will know when I’m ready. But I know there won’t be one, and I have to put on my big-girl pants (or take them off …) and make a decision. My husband has recently offered me two additional dogs if I don’t have a baby of my own, and I have to say I am seriously considering his offer, although I wouldn’t need two, one would be enough.

I WROTE FORTY-TWO DIARIES TOTAL IF YOU ADD UP
everything in the box my mom sent me from her basement and in my bookshelves in my current home. And, after reading most of them, I learned a few things about me, past and present. Past: I loved Jeff Hunt, like, a lot. I loved shopping. I loved cleaning out and reorganizing my possessions. I loved starting over and had great faith that things would be different starting Monday/first day of school/first day of school after holiday vacation/once my closet was cleaned out. Present: Everything I just wrote about the past is still true if I replace the word “school” with anything else. Minus Jeff Hunt.

I have never been so disappointed in myself and my lack of growth as a person as I have been rereading my old journals. I had this (stupid) idea to go through them for this book, that I would find little gems in them, or some inspiration at least, so I could talk about my early years using my own words from those actual earlier years. At first I was excited to find all the old lists I used to make, to read my old thoughts, and to remember what my life was like and who I used to be. I had planned on using them for material. Maybe even copying them down word for word, thinking
that they would be funny or charming, that they would provide some insight into what kind of person I had become. I guess that’s the reason one keeps a journal, isn’t it? To keep tabs on what was happening and to monitor self-development, keep track of memories? But mine have provided nothing short of utter disappointment. As I started to really read them, I realized that I haven’t changed at all from 1986 until about three years ago. That means that for twenty-four years I have been the exact same person, making all the same mistakes and all the same promises to myself. There was almost no growth, no change, no movement of any kind in a positive direction in any way. The only thing somewhat comforting is that I think I started out pretty mature for my age. The bad part is that I totally stopped maturing as a person at around thirteen. It’s depressing me. I don’t know how to handle this discovery. It’s kind of sent me into a tailspin. I like thinking of how far I’ve come as an adult. I like feeling so superior to the old me. I want to think that I am a really evolved person and that all the experiences I’ve had have propelled me toward the person I am now. I mean, I own a house and have a retirement account! That’s, like, really mature, right? But as I read and reread these old journals of mine, I realized that I had hardly evolved at all until I met Dean Johnsen.