The thing about hero-worshiping is that it rarely ends well. My first hero was Miss Lolly, my Kindergarten teacher, upon whom I bestowed the title of “hero” before we’d even met. During the summer before kindergarten I decided that Miss Lolly and I would be best friends — simply because I was me and she was she. I told my mother, as we walked to school, that I was going to be Miss Lolly’s favorite. With a bemused smile and a shrug of her shoulders, my mother said “There are twenty-four students in your class, dear. You may have some competition.”
Sadly, not only was my mother correct about the competition (Jennifer Anderson already knew how to read!) but, three weeks into the school year, when I had yet to be chosen as a line leader, it was discovered that Miss Lolly had completely overlooked me. Though she knew me by sight, my name, it seemed, was nowhere on her ledger. “That’s odd,” She mused to my mother. “What the heck?” I wondered to myself.
Seven years later, upon receiving a form letter in response to a love letter written to Sean Cassidy, I swore off hero-worshipping altogether. To be honest, it wasn’t that hard. My heroes, if I’d pursued them, were Shelley Bruce, the lead in Broadway’s Annie, and Alan Alda. Thankfully, I had enough self awareness to realize that neither actor was interested in striking up a friendship with a 
seventh grade, B+ student from Seattle, Washington. And so I kept my heroes and our relationships where they belonged, in my fantasy life.
Until last Tuesday, when I got burned again. For years now, my literary hero has been David Sedaris, an American humor writer. His work is both outrageously funny and, I think, deeply compassionate. Judging by the number of people willing to pay fifty dollars or more to hear Sedaris read his material, it’s clear that I’m not alone in my assessment. To say that I “loved” David Sedaris would be accurate. I considered him a writing mentor and felt that I read in his books (and by extension, his soul) a mutual love for humanity.
And so, when I discovered that he was coming to L.A., I bought tickets. “This is my mother’s day gift” I told my husband. “I can’t wait.” When Chris suggested I bring a book to be signed by Sedaris, I initially balked at the idea. “I don’t know,” I stammered. “I wouldn’t know what to say.” But in the intervening weeks, I decided that if Sedaris was signing books, I would bring mine. “All I want to say to him is that I admire his work and am drawn to his unique talent for exposing human weaknesses in a silly and yet compassionate way,” I told Chris.
Before I go on, I want you to re-read that last sentence, beginning with “I admire,” and then time yourself while you read it again. I can say it in four seconds. An appropriate response, something along the lines of: “Why thank you. What a nice compliment. I hope you enjoy the show.” Should take, allowing for two inhalations, no more than another three or four seconds. Eye contact, considered by most to be sign of respect and refinement, adds no additional time. Signing the book, assuming Sedaris has his own signature down to a science, should round the total tete-a-tete to about ten seconds. In short, I was hoping for ten seconds of my hero’s time.
What I got was so much less- – not, actually, in seconds, but devastatingly so in quality. “What name?” Sedaris asked as I pressed the book forward. “Jennifer.” I said, shocked that it took me a second to recall my own name. “With two ‘n’s’?” he asked. “Um. . .ya.” I stammered. And then, as I opened my mouth to deliver my compliment, Mr. Sedaris inexplicably asked me what animal I wanted? “Animal?” I repeated, as though I’d never heard the word. Looking up (and irritated) Sedaris repeated his question. “What animal would you like me to draw in your book?” It was clear that if he had to repeat his question I was risking both the signature and the animal, so I blurted out: “A cat.” And then, before the anger washed over me, I offered my compliment awkwardly, and he accepted it — without eye contact of course, because he was busy defacing my book with a cartoon cat.
David Sedaris may be a famous writer, but he can’t doodle worth doody, and if he manages a kind of delicate balance between laughing at himself and laughing at others in his writing, he lacks such subtlety in person. I’m not sure what he estimates the average I.Q. of his readers to be, but if he thinks I can’t tell when I’m being kept at arm’s length via a doodle, he’s off by ten or twenty points.
But as irritated as I was with Sedaris, I was more irritated with myself. Hero-worshiping? At my age? I suspected I would feel hollow, exposed, and stupid after meeting him. The first commandment was a clue, as was my common sense. I knew, before our brief exchange, that it’s the rare hero who can meet a worshipper and make them feel infinitely valued.
In fact, it’s such a rare hero, we have a name for him — God. David Sedaris might be a great writer. He might even be a great person when he’s not signing books. But I’m going back to God. The only one in that relationship hesitant to make eye-contact is me. And, after clearing up a few things in the confessional, I plan on gazing lovingly at my hero, confident that He’ll be gazing lovingly at me — without a sharpie in his hand.
