It's a myth that celebrities are interesting. My definition of torture would be to share laundry day with Jennifer Aniston, or Thanksgiving with Michael Moore. I'd have to bring my own doggy bag to that gig, given Mr Moore's evident appetite.
Everyday people have the best stories, because they're not imbued with ego. Tonight, for example, I was chatting to a woman with whom I have been acquainted for a while. For no apparent reason, she decided to tell me her life story, almost the least of which was that she had been a Playboy Bunny.
I'm not certain if 'Bunny' should be capitalized. On reflection, it should.
Gloria Steinem famously went undercover as a Bunny, where she discovered that cocktailing is hard work with false ears or without. My friend Lisa remembered her time there as a great way to learn the bar trade while making gigunda tips. She laughed recalling her big, black Bunny Mother who turned her modest bosom into something more, and taught her how to carry trays of drinks while tottering on five inch heels.
Which reinforces how Steinem's self-serving tale is nothing compared to real life. The celebrity culture has a way of making a point about our lives through the lives of the famous. But to my mind there is often no point to be made. Life is its own reward.
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