I do a lot of embarrassing things by choice. Not just tripping over myself or dropping things or waving back to a hot guy who was waving to the hot girl behind me. We all do things like that and they are accidents. I do embarrassing things by choice. Most recently, I sat at the movie theater for ten hours for the Harry Potter premiere. Yeah. Ten hours. But that’s just the beginning. For years I have lived a secret life and no one ever knew. I live a secret life…in the shower.
Before this gets picked up by 18 and older sites, let me clarify: you’ve done what I’ve done. Okay, that didn’t help matters. I better just come right out and say it. I act in the shower.
We have all done it. We’ve all turned on the water then waited patiently on the toilet. An imaginary voice says our name and we look surprised, put our hands to our mouth, maybe fan ourselves, and then walk into the shower. As the water beats down on us, we pick up a shampoo bottle, look out over the various soaps and begin: “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe this! I’d like to thank the Academy…”
I have taken this to a whole new level, because Oscar Winning in the Shower is old hat. I haven’t fancied myself a Grammy or a Tony, that’s not really my style, even if I am a voice major. I have, however, sung in the shower as I present one of the nominees for Best Original Song. Alan Menken has to stop conducting the orchestra accompanying me because he’s too busy weeping at my loveliness. But even this gets old and I have needed to create a whole new scenario for myself.
Now my shower is the Red Carpet. Sometimes it’s at the Oscars, sometimes at a premiere, depends on my mood (and how recently an awards show has been on). I talk to the paparazzi, laugh, pose, look stunningly gorgeous in red, which of course is actually blood from forgetting to use shaving cream. I’m the up-and-comer, the One To Watch, the girl who rivals the entire world on talent, beauty, grace, poise, and awesomeness. In that twenty minute–okay, mom, I see you glaring–FORTY minute shower, I am the Bee’s Knees. I am the creme de la creme. The greatest thing to happen to film since Scarlett Johansson’s boobs.
My interviews are sensational. “How did you get to be this fabulous?” asks Ryan, who has to look up at me not because he’s so short, but because I am so tall and perfect and stunning. “Oh, Mr. Seacrest!” I giggle, “Now now, you know I have boyfriends, I don’t think the entire male cast of Grey’s Anatomy would like hearing you flirt with me!” and as I modestly wish my competitors luck (as if they have a shot, please), I flash a smile that makes Kate Middleton look like a dead possum. I am just that good. Everyone else’s interviews talk about how badly they want to work with me: Hugh Jackman would do anything for a hot kissing scene; Merryl Streep thinks I should open my own acting school; Natalie Portman wants to someday play my best friend in a movie, because maybe then, she’d get to be my real best friend. And I laugh and wave and am genuinely wonderful until the water gets too cold and then I need to gracefully bid adieu to the red carpet.
We’ve all done it, and if you haven’t, I suggest it! The ego boost is astounding–until you watch the Kardashians and realize that Kendall Jenners’s legs are longer than your entire body and then you eat a bucket of KFC sprinkled with chocolate sauce and cry yourself to sleep. But that’s okay, because in the morning, you’ll probably need another shower, and this time, you’ll have won more Oscars than Merryl Streep herself. If that that doesn’t work, fall asleep talking to Conan! I hear he and Andy have been dying to get you on the show.