Dear Tina,
Were SNL, 30 Rock, more awards than your mantelpiece can hold, and a Vanity Fair cover not enough for you? Did you really have to go and write a memoir (and publish excerpts not once but twice in The New Yorker) just to prove you can write in the book-kind-of-way too? And that women can be respectable celebrities? Don’t you know celebrity women are only allowed to be crazy, born into it, or/(preferably) and sluts? We normal women need these excuses to write you people off and feel less bad about our own mundane lives.
But damn you Tina Fey, now you’ve gone and proven that pretty-smart-but-not-Ivy-League-smart women, women who have actually shopped in Ann Taylor and Contempo Casuals, can be egregiously successful. (Who am I kidding? Everyone knows getting into UVA out of state is as hard as getting into an Ivy League.) So what I didn’t pass your clever little test for being cultural elite. At least I know who David Foster Wallace is, which surely makes me at least a cultural snob.
And worst of all you are more or less (well a little more than) my age. I hate it when people I admire are my age. I like it much better when they’re a lot older or a lot younger and then when I compare myself to them I can blame my underachievement on that. At least I beat you on one count. It took you until forty to have to take your pants off when you came home after work. I am only thirty-nine and I have already been doing that for years. Take that, Tina Fey.
PS – Yes I know this post is about Tina Fey, not the Cotswolds, and not Berlin. What can I say? It’s my blog.
PPS – To Brit readers, Tina really means trousers when she talks about pants, as in neither of us are talking about a compulsion to take off our underpants when we come home from work.
