“To become the observer of one’s life is to escape the suffering of like,” Mr. Wilde once said. Me, I put it simpler: “Be a big fat f*cking drama queen.”
For instance, I had a sad, ill-starred romance a few years ago. I was heartbroken and demoralized and knew my last chance for love had flown. But did that stop me from posing by the darkened window in a flowing chiffon like Susan Hayward in Back Street? Hell, no–you’re not really suffering unless you’re doing it in soft-focus and a Jean-Louis frock!
Just now I am going through horrendous drawn-out tragedy in my private life, which I’d prefer not to discuss, but thanks in advance for the flowers and sympathy. Not having any other “higher source” to draw upon, I look at my “What Would Ina Claire Do?” bracelet, or “What Would Claudette Colbert Do?” I channel my inner Charlotte Vale or Lady Marjorie or Hildy Johnson, and rise to the occasion. OK, sometimes my inner Norma Desmond or Helen Lawson, but only in very dire circumstances.
I know there are other big fat drama queens here–role call?