I feel as though I slept through my early 20’s (I’m 23,) and I hit snooze on living my childhood dreams, (I’m 24 in a month, far past the point of pursuing dreams.)
Does maturing make you less sure of yourself? No, right? You’re supposed to feel a bit like a washed-up poser at this age! It’s your early twenties!
Your teenage ignorant confidence is replaced by an assured insecurity and a general sense of doom.
God, I’m supposed to be doing something by now! As a kid, I spent hours singing in front of the mirror. I was preparing for a life in the limelight. A life that hasn’t seemed to come to fruition.
Despite the fact that I’ve done my Malcolm Gladwell 10,000 hours! I enrolled in acting lessons at 5. I burned my retinas playing back High School Musical, learning the “We’re All In This Together,” choreo. I started singing lessons after I serenaded my fifth-grade bully with Taylor Swift’s “Mean” during my schoolwide talent show, locking eyes with her the whole song. In seventh grade, I woke up every school morning to Glee’s rendition of “Heads Will Roll.” I would hop out of bed, slam my back into the floor, and execute crunches until the song’s completion. I HAD AN EATING DISORDER AND A FATHER COMPLEX I WAS CUSTOM-MADE TO BE A SOMEBODY.
I mean, as a child I promised myself I’d be a star. I knew it was the only way I could be hoisted out of small-town mediocrity. Saved from a comfortable, quiet life.
I kept that promise. I enrolled in a performing arts high school for that promise. I faced abuse for years for that promise. I isolated myself from friends and family, and missed funerals and celebrations for that promise.
I moved to New York to keep that promise. Then, I realized…I hated myself. I hated performing all the time. I hated being annoying on Instagram. (My favorite medium when performance opportunities were lacking: spamming my Insta story.)
So I stopped trying to be a star. I broke a pinky promise with a five-year-old.
Or as my therapist would say, “I conducted inner child healing work, while learning to de-tach my worth from my issues with my father, and stopped obsessing over my body as a product, and started viewing my body as a vessel for my heart, mind and life.” BLAhblahblahhhh.
GODDAMNIT, I was supposed to be on my second Jonas brother by now. I should’ve at least played Steve Martin’s granddaughter in a made-for-TV movie! But no, instead I’m listening to Steve Martin’s memoir while mopping the floors of a Pilates studio.
“Born Standing Up?” I doubt it.
The five-year-old version of myself doesn’t even know what Pilates is! And if she knew I were reading a stand-up’s memoir, I’m sure she’d be out for my blood.
I’m not a Pop Princess, a la Britney! I’m not even Hillary Duff, pop-adjacent but can’t dance a step, and known mostly for her “That’s So Gay,” commercials!
No…I’m a broke Brooklynite, with a comedy habit and adult acne.
I will never be an Oliva Rodrigo American dream success story.
I mean, yes could I be cast on SNL tomorrow, and be skyrocketed to Gilda Radner levels of likeability and love?! Yes, of course..I’m still a motherfuggin genius, and secretly very funny. (if you’ve ever seen me bomb at a standup mic, you’re under a Beyoncé level NDA gag order, so zip it punk.)
But I’ll never be a teen icon. Let’s face it, I’ll never be on the cover of Seventeen magazine. Not even as a “Still Smoking Hot at 23, What’s Her Skincare Secret” covergirl.
I mean Lady Gaga was 22 when she released Just Dance.
Lindsay Lohan was 18 when she was first arrested.
Avril was 23 when she dropped “Girlfriend.” Or sorry, I mean MELISSA! Since Avril Is DEAD and ALL!
Wait–there was the idea. I knew since I couldn’t be somebody, a desirable entity of celebrity, I could just make up somebody…I could be my own Melissa Vandella.
(If you’re not familiar with the conspiracy Avril is Dead, the Wikipedia is here.)
I’d kill my Sasha Fierce. I’d commit Taylor Swift's Reputation suicide. I’d go through my first-ever popgirl reinvention.
So instead of being a nineteen-year-old, hot new ingenue in Hollywood, I changed my name.
The Artist Formerly Known As BLAHAH GINADADSNAME became Jet Jameson.
Is it a stage name? Sure. If you consider the whole world a stage. (sorry the annoying theatre kid jumped out.)
But isn’t it?
I’m performing for you. All of the time. I’m performing my life at you. On Instagram, over drinks, during kismet bump-ins on the L train.
I’m observing myself, as I scroll through my own feed, as I readjust in the dive bar bathroom mirror, as I catch a glimpse of myself in the dark reflection of the subway’s windows.
I’ve reinvented, but that doesn’t mean the desire for stardom has dissipated. Despite my best efforts, I still want you to love me.
Or at least, I want you to like my Instagram post.
Or maybe read my blog?
I want you to think I’m interesting enough to spend your time on. Beautiful enough to consider.
I need you to think the life I’m living is worthwhile. Or cool, or fun, or at least envy-inducing. It’s not, but I’d like for you to think it is.
I hope you give me a standing O at my funeral.
I could win the Oscar for Best Life Lived.
Woooooahhh, Jet! It’s me, Jet, here and this is getting pretty heavy for a blog post!
Shoot, yeah, you’re right Jet! God, what should I do to vocalize my existential identity crises and ultimately fulfill my need to have people deem me worthy of stardom?
Jet, you silly billy! That’s what a one-woman show is for!!
A one-woman show?!
A one-woman show, Jet!
Wait — do you mean to tell me this vulnerable blog post was a self-serving marketing ploy all along?!
Yes! Vulnerability is for the masses, flagrant self-promotion for the actualized bourgeoisie!
Viva la revolución?
No, Viva Jet!
Come see “Jet, Live!” At Under St. Marks Theatre December 13th at 7:00 pm!!!!!!!!1!
