THAT TIME I GAVE A CELEBRITY MY NUMBER

I make exceptional life decisions. I'm sure you could go back many blog entries ago and read numerous descriptions of said life decisions, or you could simply scroll down to the photo at the beginning of my last blog on Oscar fashion. That, folks, is who you're dealing with.

I look fantastic - on paper. I have three degrees, am a licensed attorney in two (hopefully three soon) states, speak 2.15 languages (that's the number I came up with when I added my basic conversational French with minimal Spanish and Korean), have won 9 out of 11 jury trials, am reasonably funny, can hold an intelligent conversation and also enjoy a good fart joke. I'm even above-average in looks, at least I think so. Let me just believe I'm hot, okay?

Me in person, that's a whole other story. I'm an introvert that has finally reached the "I don't give a fuck" part of my life, which is confusing for me because I always gave so many fucks. I cared what people thought of my hair, my face, my clothes, my personality, my intelligence, everything. Now I really don't, but it comes across differently than an extrovert with social skills. I still get uncomfortable around new people and generally my go-to is try to be funny and fail, jokingly insult someone and have them think I meant it, or laughing at everyone else while I think of how to join the conversation. I'm really good at socializing, you guys.

One thing I'm particularly not good at - interacting with attractive males. If you've ever witnessed it, it's sad. It's probably amusing. It might make you cringe but giggle a little at the same time and walk away feeling confusingly uncomfortable. That's how it makes me feel, anyway.

I have NEVER in my entire life gone up to a guy in person and given him my number. Never. Not even when I was in law school and drank four days a week. It has simply never happened.

So when you've gone 34 years of your life never approaching a guy to give him your number, what do you do about that? Well you make your first victim a celebrity, duh.

I'd made plans to visit my parents in Missouri for my grandma's 96th birthday at the beginning of March a couple of weeks before I went. I'd be gone all weekend and return on Monday. My tickets were $87. It was amazing. So imagine my intense heartache and disappointment when I go to improv on Tuesday before I leave and find out that Matt McGorry (google him now if you don't already know who he is. I'll wait) was going to be the guest in my teacher's show on Sunday. The Sunday I'd be GONE.

I died a little inside. I may have posted some "woe is me" comments on my teacher's facebook page. I was a sad little girl.

I went to Missouri, we fed my grandma cake, I slept a lot, the show happened without me there, I flew back to LA.

Now it's important to understand the difference between Mr. McGorry and say, Hugh Dancy. Or Bradley Cooper. Hugh and Bradley are 9000% out of my reach. Hugh is married to Claire Danes, who I consider somewhat mannish but whatever, and Bradley dates models and not attorneys who drive Honda Civics. That's why it's totally okay for me to have a picture of Hugh Dancy as my phone background, because we're never going to meet so I can be as creepy as I want.

Matt McGorry, however, seems like a normal guy. Not only is he insanely hot, but he's age appropriate and not super duper famous yet. And he posts videos on his instagram (NOT A STALKER YOU GUYS, I FOLLOW LOTS OF PEOPLE) and he's actually hilarious, unlike his characters. He seems like he'd be someone I'd get along with well - we have the same political ideas, the same type of sense of humor, he says "fuck" a lot, seems to be intelligent and educated, etc. Really what I'm looking for in any guy.

When I return to class, one of my friends tells me she met him and that he was super nice and really down to earth. She didn't proposition him because she's engaged and not a creepster, but still got a good impression of him. I was sad for about twelve more seconds until someone walks in and puts a flyer on the wall of our classroom that had his really hot face on it and said he was coming BACK this week to be a guest in ANOTHER Second City show.

Well, this was obviously destiny. The stars aligned, Mercury was in retrograde (what the fuck does that even MEAN?), Jesus and Vishnu held hands and danced around a cauldron of glitter, all so I could meet Matt McGorry. I mean, of course. I didn't get to meet him so he comes to Second City two weeks in a row, giving me a chance? Naw, that's some movie shit, that doesn't happen. He was going to get to meet my awesome self and decide that hey, maybe he wants to date a hot attorney who happens to do improv in her spare time and is not a gold digger. Time for me to organize my Pinterest wedding board, aww shit.

I bought a ticket immediately upon finishing class and began preparing for what the sparkly rose-smelling goddess of love had decided was going to be "my moment." I had to be PREPARED.

To me, preparation meant looking hot, having my number readily available so he couldn't refuse it, and pumping myself up enough to speak to an attractive person who also happened to be on two very big TV shows. No big deal. As any reasonable person would do, I Snapchatted my friends across the world (yes, literally) asking hair up or down, glasses or no glasses. All the answers varied so I settled with hair down and glasses, because he seems like he'd like smart chicks - and we all know glasses don't mean "my vision genes are defective" but rather "I like reading books in Latin."

I even thought "What if I ask if I can buy him a drink? What if I ask him to get a drink RIGHT THEN? What if he ACCEPTS? I only have $4! I can't tell someone I'll buy them a drink and only have $4, therefore making them buy said drink!" So, since this was on Sunday and I got paid Monday, I took one of my old purses to Crossroads, that store where you sell your old clothes, and walked out with $9.64. I had to use my $4 for parking for the show, so I hoped to god that he would order a Bud Light and I could pony up the cash like the baller I was pretending to be.

I got to Second City early, watched a class show, wandered aimlessly around for thirty minutes, during which time I stole a business card from the office and, with a Sharpie (visibility, you guys), wrote my name and phone number on the back. I tucked that sucker into my purse and waited for my moment.

I was walking down the stairs to go chat with the door guy when Matt turns the corner and starts UP the stairs. HOLY SHIT I'M NOT READY YET, WE CAN'T MEET YET, THIS IS NOT HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. STOP BEING THERE, GO BACK! He was texting, so I managed to slip by him unnoticed and got a giant wave of anxiety that I can only assume is similar to how you feel after you take a hit of meth.

So in my meth-like state, I watched the show, not really paying attention, and rehearsed what I should say. I knew I couldn't get my full life story out in a few sentences, so I just decided to introduce myself and tell him I was in the class of one of the ladies he improvised with last week.

After the show a ton of girls were lining up to take pictures with him. I decided to be cool and stand by the door, because I didn't want to be lumped in with the chicks that just thought of him as a commodity to be shared and bragged about on Instagram. I wanted to be COOL. A person, not a fan. I waited a good 20 minutes before all the fangirls got done with him, feeling cooler and cooler as I stood there pretending not to be phased by this incredibly hot celebrity that was 5 feet away from me.

Then he turned towards me and started walking to the door. This was my moment. Now or never. I touched his arm to get his attention (so nervously that I didn't even fully appreciate that I was touching a REALLY NICE ARM) and he looked at me and stopped. Then this happened.

"HI I'M IN NANCY'S CLASS YOU KNOW FROM MAMA'S BOY THAT THING YOU DID LAST WEEK YEAH I DIDN'T GET TO SEE IT BUT I HEARD YOU WERE GOOD UM YEAH SO I UH ****honestly no idea what I said here**** YEAH YOU PROBABLY GET THIS A LOT" - pull out card with my name and number on it - "BUT UH HERE'S MY NUMBER SO UH YEAH IF YOU DON'T WANT TO USE IT JUST DON'T TALK ABOUT HOW A RANDOM CHICK GAVE YOU HER NUMBER ON A TALK SHOW OR SOMETHING HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA NO REALLY DON'T OK I'M GONNA GO NICE TO MEET YOU BYE"

*I run down stairs*

Then came the regret. OH SHIT what did I just do? What came out of my mouth? It wasn't MY fault, he was staring INTO MY SOUL. Seriously he looks you straight in the eye when you talk to him and I turned to stone and was unable to control what came out of my mouth. I had so much adrenaline going that I stood and talked to the guy working the door (I know him, so it wasn't weird and random) for 20 minutes pretty much flipping out and really wanting a Klonopin.

And no, I haven't heard from him, if you were curious what type of first impression I made.