But nobody is out there tackling the really big issue. Yes, once again it falls to my little monthly column to spearhead the campaign against a silent killer. It's insidious, it's crippling and it plagues almost everyone I know. It attacks seemingly healthy males and females of all races and economic backgrounds, and though we may get better, precious few of us ever get completely well. I'm talking about the shame, the scourge, the heartbreak of massive insecurity.
Let's call it MI, because initials always sound more urgent when the celebrity spokesperson explains it to Larry King. "Well, Larry," she'll tearfully begin, "my first bout of MI hit in seventh grade, right before Marcy Needleman's roller disco bat mitzvah party." Dabbing her smudge-proof-mascaraed eyes with a crumpled tissue, she'll take a deep breath and forge ahead. "How many nights have I lain awake asking myself the same question: Why, why, why did I choose that day to try parting my hair down the side?"
Before long I envision a "very special" episode of Sesame Street, in which Snuffy admits he suffers from MI and goes into rehab; a public service announcement encouraging us to get tested before it's too late; and a magazine quiz zeroing in on the early warning signs.
Before showing my upper arms in public, I first: (a) Make certain my tankini is clean and there's film in the camera. (b) Drink like there's no tomorrow and wait for a total eclipse of the sun.
I am being ignored by a snobby Rodeo Drive salesperson. Therefore I: (a) Find the manager and explain that I am entitled to service and civility. (b) Slink away as if I had just been caught committing a felony or enjoying Paris Hilton's debut CD.
To secure the salary increase I want, need and deserve, I meet with my boss and say: (a) I've taken on greater responsibility and I believe I should receive greater monetary compensation. Here are several examples of the ways in which I've contributed to the quality of our product. (b) Um...I'm sorry, I'm probably bothering you...in fact let me come back later, maybe... I just wanted to, um, say [insanely long pause], you're pretty.
I am on a first date with a very attractive man. I order: (a) Whatever I'm in the mood to eat. (b) A single grain of couscous because it's essential this person understand that I am dainty and delicate and exist on a simple diet of air and my own loveliness.
When I walk into a party where I don't see anyone I know, I think: (a) What a terrific opportunity to meet some new people! (b) I will spend the next nine minutes standing in the corner pretending to be onion dip, at which point I will fake a migraine, go home, put on my giant Detroit Tigers T-shirt, and watch a rerun of Law & Order SVU, the way God intended me to do.
If you answered "B" to any of these questions, it is my sad duty to inform you that you could be one of the 6,576,344,362* members of society suffering from massive insecurity.
*Note: We do not include anyone who's been cryogenically frozen. Nor do we count one Howard J. Koppleman of Dayton, Ohio, whose parents inexplicably appear to have done everything exactly right—the entire Koppleman family is currently being studied by massively insecure researchers at NASA.
Or maybe it doesn't matter who started it. What matters is that we don't seem to know our own worth. What matters is that we still worry the cool kids won't want to eat lunch at our table. What matters is that I have two different friends who wear makeup to bed because they're afraid to look like they actually look in front of the men they're attempting to dazzle.
So here are the choices: We could either hold a telethon to fight MI and perhaps raise enough money to get scientists started on a vaccine that will wipe the damn thing out once and for all. I mean, if we can destroy an entire layer of ozone in my lifetime, how hard can it be to get rid of our insecurities? Or we could decide to take a risk, say what we think, get up and dance, wear our crow's-feet like crinkly little badges of honor, acknowledge that it can be really, really scary to face the world head-on armed with nothing more than a strong sense of irony and a good pair of shoes—and then do it anyway.
Me? Well, I'm hoping that vaccine is right around the corner.