Scrappy Little Nobody (30 page)

When I’m in full man-child mode, I sleep until ten, dopey and sweating, my only motivation to stand the promise of an ice-cream sandwich to start the day. The mid-morning sugar crash isn’t
a problem when my only objective is to sit as still as possible while watching
Naked and Afraid
. People might roll their eyes at me, but they’re just jealous because their hearts-of-palm ceviche sucks. Sure, my muscles are atrophied, but stacking my dirty dishes in the sink and leaving them there has become a veritable game of high-stakes Jenga, so my physical dexterity really isn’t in question at this point.

Food and housework aren’t the real problem. The real problem is that I let anxiety cripple my relationships. I blame this paralysis on different things. It started as a money issue: I was too broke to go out. I didn’t want to spend money I didn’t have on dinners and drinks and the movies. I didn’t want to invite anyone over, because my place was gross. Once I had an income, it became a time issue: I’m working too much to go out. Even when I do have a free day or two, there’s this overwhelming guilt about planning anything recreational.
I haven’t been to the dentist in a year and a half, but I’m gonna go to Lacy’s party? Out of the question.
I mean, I still won’t go to the dentist, but making fun plans would force me to
acknowledge
that I’m not going to go to the dentist.

I get that it’s not a money issue or a time issue, it’s just a me-being-a-malfunctioning-life-form issue. I think I need to become perfect all at once, so I keep getting overwhelmed and putting it off. I can’t remember the last time that I didn’t have something hanging over my head. There are usually about thirty to eighty things. Is that normal? Don’t tell me. If it’s not, I’m a jerk. If it is, that’s super-depressing, and I know I’ll just use “this is normal” as an excuse to procrastinate even more.

I know that feeling isn’t unique to me. Yes, I’m away from home a lot and keep the hours of a meth-addicted puzzle enthusiast (it takes as long as it takes, okay?!), but everyone in the world feels like their inbox is growing faster than they can keep up, right? If there was just a little more time, or a little more money, or if you could just get through this one last rough patch, it would all be clear, it would all fall into place. It’s an insatiable trap.

And YET, I always think,
This is my year
. This year I’m going to get my shit SO together that I’ll always be able to see the solution to my problems. I’m going to get it so together that I’ll never have to “get it together” again. It’s like this Tyler Durden–style feeling that I’m so close. I’m so close to being a real person. I’m so close to making time for friends and family. I’m so close to being able to take out the trash without checking that none of my neighbors are outside because small talk makes me feel like the world is on fire. I’m so close to being wonderful.

Sometimes I get tough with myself.
You are unbelievable! Nut up and fix your problems! You come from a long line of poor Irish women who were perfectly self-sufficient, and by the way, they had like a million babies a year!

Then I’ll play good cop.
Hey, buddy, maybe you could just answer a couple emails today? The one from your insurance company doesn’t seem too scary, and you don’t want to go to jail for driving uninsured, do you? No, of course you don’t. And you’re making money now, maybe get a cleaning service to come by like once a month, no pressure, just so it doesn’t start looking like a fucking episode of
Hoarders
in here, okay?

But I fight back.
Balance? Moderation? Discipline? These are just the many names for “smug” used by the bitches who lie to us on their lifestyle blogs. That’s right, Clean Food Cross Fit Mom1, I know you’ve got a pile of fun-size Almond Joys in your glove compartment. Now go sit in your driveway and eat your candy while masturbating to Tom Hardy like a real woman!
You can see how I would think emotional adulthood is right around the corner.

I’ll just be a man-child for another three months. I swear.

I
don’t want to brag—I realize my elite lifestyle and celebrity status might intimidate you—but my car has keyless entry. That’s right. My little beauty just needs to sense my presence and, as long as I have my keys in my pocket, she opens up like a gross sexual metaphor that’s demeaning to women. Meow.

When I go out of town and drive a rental car, sometimes I will approach it, keys in pocket, and pull on the handle of a locked door. Well. It’s an embarrassing situation, to say the least. I’m forced to push a button on a clicker to enter my motor vehicle . . . like some pleb. (We’ve been hanging out long enough that it’s cool for me to make jokes like that, right?) It is an embarrassing situation, because expecting my car door to magically be unlocked makes me feel like a little spoiled-idiot baby who doesn’t remember a time when she had to insert a key into a lock to get into her car.
Wahh, why won’t this open?!

Every time this happens it reminds me how quickly we take formerly miraculous things for granted. No Uber? How did we get places before? No Wi-Fi on this flight? I might actually die of boredom. No navigation on my phone? So I have to print out directions from the internet? Or look at . . . one of those big
paper things . . . is it pronounced “map” as in “cap” or “mape” as in “vape”?

I don’t want to become complacent. Lazy is something I’ve always been, but complacent and entitled I want to avoid. When we made
Up in the Air
, George once said that actors have a bad habit of thinking that however well their career is going, it will only get better from there. Well, not me! I’m going to assume the world could collectively turn on me at any moment! I suppose I should try to find a balance, but that seems harder.

Film actors are treated like useless idiots, because we often are. But I started in theater, dammit! I used to sleep on the floor of the Port Authority at fourteen waiting for the bus home after traveling six hours to New York for one lousy audition! This was my dream! I don’t want to get used to any of it! Now where is the chilled oxygen I ordered!

When I first moved to LA, I didn’t have a TV, so I went to my one friend’s apartment to watch the Oscars. It was the year that Charlize Theron won for
Monster
. I watched her walk down the red carpet while I ate my questionable bodega hot dog and imagined that she must have spent the previous three weeks being expertly massaged and manicured in preparation. This was the most important night of her career. (It probably wasn’t, but I thought that at the time. The most important moment of her career was more likely a day on set, actually doing her job.) I assumed that a team of specialists were working around the clock to monitor her food intake, skin regime, and eyelash density.

When I was nominated, in the weeks leading up to the Oscars I thought,
Doesn’t anybody care that I’m not going to the gym, and
I’m falling asleep in my makeup every night, and I’m eating like Macaulay Culkin in the first thirty minutes of
Home Alone
? Isn’t anyone going to stop me? When is my Charlize Theron team going to parachute in and tell me what to do here?

I thought celebrities never had to take care of anything themselves. In fact, I’m still guilty of thinking this now. I look at anyone richer or more famous than me and think,
Well, yeah, if I had a team of assistants, a nutritionist, and a trainer, I’d have Justin Bieber’s abs, too!

The weird thing is not how much people interfere with your life, but how little. No one wants to be the person to tell a celebrity they need to watch what they eat, or cut down on the boozing, or maybe just see a good old-fashioned therapist. (Obviously I already know I need to see a therapist, you don’t have to tell me.) For the most part I’m on my own. Well, I get LOTS of help when it comes to things I would gladly avoid, like showing up to junkets or putting on real clothes for those junkets. The people who sign my checks know that I’d be cool with skipping them altogether. They send a small army to make sure I do it. But when I need a ride to the doctor because I’ve gotten bronchitis for the eighth time in six months, I’m drinking a Red Bull and gettin’ behind the wheel.

And you know what? That’s good. It builds character. I never
want
to build character, it’s fuckin’ awful, but it keeps me from becoming reliant on other people. I don’t want to be like Paris Hilton, telling some judge that I didn’t know my license was suspended because somebody was supposed to read my mail for me. I want to tell a judge that I didn’t know my license was suspended because I don’t have my shit together, but at least that’s
how I’ve always been! My ineptitude is not the result of fame! It’s part of my god-given personality!

I spoke to Colin Firth at a party once and before I shared an inappropriate story about watching
Bridget Jones’s Diary
on Ambien, he told my boyfriend and me that a few weeks earlier he’d gotten a flat tire on a country road. It was a very charming, self-deprecating story about how silly he felt not knowing what to do, and how he took a deep breath and figured it out, because he refused to behave like some helpless celebrity. Quite unfairly, my boyfriend and I started to use “Colin Firth” as shorthand for freezing up in the face of a minor problem. “Sorry I’m late, baby, the air conditioner kept turning itself off all day and I had a bit of a Colin Firth moment.”

Never is this truer than when I stay in a nice hotel. It’s so fancy, it’s so well-appointed, it’s so pleased with itself for being the height of luxury that when I can’t locate a power outlet in the first ninety seconds of looking, I get unreasonably distressed. When I stay in a Motel 6 in Sarasota, Florida, I’m perfectly comfortable. Can’t find a mini-fridge stocked with sparkling water? Of course you can’t, you’re at a Motel 6. At the crappy motel, I know I have to count on myself. And despite all evidence to the contrary, I can rely on this ol’ gal to come through in a pinch.

I want to keep it that way. I don’t want to become helpless. Some people think it’s weird or uncouth when I do normal things, but people who actually think things like
Ew, why is Anna Kendrick buying toilet paper, doesn’t she have an assistant or something?
are the same people who would think,
She has an assistant buy her toilet paper? She’s worse than a terrorist.
So those
people can choke to death on their own miserable worldview. XO! Conversely, some people act like I’m a literal hero for completing the smallest tasks without assistance, and I
agree
. Someone get me a medal.

Recently, a very sweet teenage boy stopped me on the street in Brooklyn. He asked for a photo and said, “How are you just . . . walking?” He knew what he was asking didn’t exactly make sense. I told him walking wasn’t so bad but I’d consider hiring a rickshaw the next time I left the house. He laughed, but I still think part of him was surprised I was executing a basic human function on my own.

I want to be a real person, even if that person wasn’t so great to begin with. I want to always be able to say,
Hey, I’m not incompetent because I got famous, I’m incompetent because I’m a pathetic waste of humanity.
But I’m not about to let it get any
worse
. I don’t want to be the guy who has to call an assistant the next time I get a flat tire. I still don’t know how to change the tire, but I do know how to call roadside assistance. And I’m not going to let myself turn into a recluse because I’m embarrassed to be seen outside the context of perfectly glamorous situations. So if I come into your local 7-Eleven with a gown hiked up around my knees, asking for directions to my own premiere because the GPS broke, be cool about it.

I recently had jury duty. It was the second time I’d been called to perform my civic duty since moving to California. When I told friends I was doing it, the majority of them balked. “They make celebrities do jury duty?” Um, we’re just people, of course they do! (Yes, obviously I was hoping that being famous would
get me out of jury duty. I wasn’t going to be the dick who called someone up and said it, though.) I
did
ignore the notice for several months. I was shooting a movie out of state and worried that if I called to postpone they wouldn’t let me. On the other hand, if I called once I got home and
lied
explained that I had only unearthed the summons upon my return, how mad could they be? Better to ask forgiveness than permission. I know, it’s the logic of a fool who goes to jail for ignoring a jury summons. But it turns out I was right! I had my rambling apology/excuse locked and loaded, but they rescheduled me without asking for one.

I’ll admit I wondered if I would run into any problems. I really do assume that most people won’t know who I am, because in my experience, they don’t. Still, I never know when I’m going to be a distraction . . . or when a municipal employee might offer to smuggle me out the back door in exchange for, say, a signed 8 x 10 glossy. No, but seriously, I didn’t want to interrupt the noble pursuit of justice.

I reported to a downtown courthouse without incident. The only person who approached me was a young woman in a pink tracksuit. She said she liked me in that movie where the dude had cancer, and she liked how it was funny and he didn’t die. I asked her if she’d served jury duty before and she said, “No, I’m not here for jury duty, I’m waiting to go into court.”
I have a fan who might be a criminal! Or a falsely accused political dissident! Or an unorthodox lawyer! Well, realistically she’s probably just some girl in a civil dispute . . . with her tyrannical landlord!
This was exciting.

The prospective jurors got called in for orientation and I said good-bye to my new friend the criminal/hero/citizen. There
were probably a hundred people shuffling in, so I took a seat at the very back of the room. So far so good. We watched a video of former jurors talking about their “rewarding experience” with such forced enthusiasm that I suspect their loved ones were being held at gunpoint just off camera. Then a woman in a business suit and orthopedic shoes gave us a speech about how as long as there wasn’t any nonsense, we’d get along fine. I was starting to feel so anonymous that I got that lovely, familiar “alone in a crowd” sensation. She continued, “There is no photography in the courthouse. Now, you might want to take a photo because maybe you see a famous attorney, or a famous defendant, or maybe . . .” She raised her hand and pointed to the back of the room. “. . . even a famous juror.”
Was she pointing at me? Dude, for real, are you pointing at me?? I’m being so stealthy! I’m all the way in the back of the room! You said “no nonsense”! This is definitely “nonsense”!