First World Problems
It was one of the most tragic things I’d ever heard.
I remember exactly where I was when I received the devastating news. Sitting on a bench outside of Auntie Anne’s, munching on an extra-salty soft pretzel and enjoying the still warm September breeze. My friends were chatting around me, everyone getting along just fine, when suddenly my friend Ellery clutched my arm, her eyes growing wide.
“Rachel,” she said, her voice dying to a frantic hush. “I forgot to tell you — Oh, it’s the most devastating news.”
“What is it?”
Ellery took a short breath, as if trying to brace me for the turmoil ahead of us. She gulped. “This is just going to break your heart, but I found out the other day that… that…”
“That James Dean was only five-foot-seven.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as I took in this devastating, earth-shattering news. Never mind the fact that James Dean died fifty-seven years ago. Just forget about the fact that he was a Hollywood big shot and probably never set foot in Virginia a day in his life. Disregard every rumor you’ve ever heard that he was a smoker and drinker and drove recklessly. He was still the man of my dreams and this was absolutely awful!!!
Ellery and I sat on the bench and ate our soft pretzels glumly, bemoaning the fact that even if you factor in an extra two inches for his hair (because they guy had amazing hair, ya’ll), we still wouldn’t be able to wear heels around him. So we buried our dreams of having him as a potential future husband while Ellery’s sister Hailey tormented us with the gleeful fact that she is five-foot-six and could still wear wedges in his presence. Lucky.
[I don’t know which is more gorgeous–the man, or the leather armchair]
Why am I telling you all this? Because it is absolutely pathetic that we even had this conversation to begin with. We’re obviously addle-brained for falling for a dead movie star two inches shorter than us who probably would have never given us the time of day anyway.
This is called a first world problem. And it’s an epidemic I happen to suffer from all the time. You probably suffer from it, too. One pillow is too thin, two are too thick. The air conditioning is freezing and the heat is stifling. The last loaf of bread has an odd number of slices, so I have to use the end piece for my sandwich. These are serious issues, people!!!
But perhaps the worst first world problem of all is this: Falling for fictional characters. Am I the only one that this happens to? Like all the guys you know in real life are either total dweebs or interested in someone else, and you’re just over there by yourself crying your eyes out that Gilbert Blythe doesn’t exist? Agh. It’s painful. Prince Charmont will never ask me to marry him if he can’t escape that dumb book and pop up in my living room instead!
These are the things that cause me to loose sleep at night.
Obviously I need to get a life.
Oh, but before I go — One more picture of James Dean. Because he’s wearing those glasses! And reading poetry! Both of which make him absolutely irresistable, in my book.
[Oh, James… Shall I compare thee to a midsummer’s day? Or do you just want to take me for a ride in your shiny little race car instead?]