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“That’s it! Perfect! Now hold that pose!” My friend Joan says as I stand with my hand fashionably affixed to my hip outside of the Waffle, a new diner on Sunset Blvd. in the heart of Hollywood. “Oh my gosh, this is so great!” Joan giggles as she frantically snaps pictures of me on her digital camera, pausing to check the images after each shot. A small crowd of people waiting outside the restaurant begin to stare at me. "Who do you think she looks like?” Joan asks a young girl gawking nearby.
“Is that… is she… Cameron Diaz?!” The girl squeals, her eyes bulging out with overzealous pre-pubescent excitement. I groan. “Look what you started.” My face reddens and I make a move to leave. “I’m taking you to the Ivy next time!” Joan says, grinning mischievously as she joins my side. I was a sophomore in college the first time I was mistaken for Cameron Diaz. My friends and I were having dinner at the Weber Grill in Chicago, and when our waiter approached our table with the check, he leaned in to whisper to me, “Are you Cameron Diaz?” At the time, I laughed it off, brushing it aside as “crazy talk,” but I secretly found it flattering. That night I spent an hour studying my facial features in the mirror – even practicing Cameron’s oversized smile as I started realizing that I did sort of bear a resemblance to the tall, blonde star of Charlie’s Angels. In the seven years since my first “recognition,” I have grown accustomed to hearing, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cameron Diaz?” I smile – the oversized Cameron smile, of course—and roll my eyes like I’m embarrassed by the question. Only I’m not embarrassed. A part of me – the exhibitionist who I never let out—really enjoys the attention. Sporting a faux famous face has become a source of pride for me, and I welcome and encourage the comparison, even dressing up as Mary from There’s Something About Mary for Halloween one year. Despite the boost my resemblance to the leggy star gives my already semi-inflated blond girl ego, I’ve recently begun to see my celebrity look-a-like status in a different spotlight. As I grow older and begin to berate myself for not being rich, successful and married at my ripe age of 24, I can’t help but draw lines of comparison between the girl on the big screen and the girl who spends her days updating Excel grids in a nondescript office building in Santa Monica. Despite sharing similar physical characteristics, my life is nothing like Cameron’s.
A typical workday for Cameron might involve chucking footballs and other objects at Ashton Kutcher’s head for the tragically dismal film What Happens in Vegas. Yes, it flopped like a chubby kid attempting to dive into the community pool, but her professional life is still exceedingly more fabulous than getting paid peanuts to file my boss’ expense reports. A side-by-side look at Cameron and my dating histories only further drives home the point of my ordinariness. Her past relationships include Justin Timberlake, Jared Leto and currently, model, Paul Sculfor; while my past non-relationships have been with a sober (by choice) raw foodist, a starving grad student who made me pay for my dinner, and a moderately attractive fellow who asked me if “sí” meant “yes” in Spanish. Sporting an almost famous face hasn’t made my life any easier or more glamorous – it has only served as a glaring reminder of what I might have if my circumstances were a bit different. A few weeks ago when I was riding the escalator down to the baggage claim at LAX, a horde of photographers began circling the bottom of moving staircase like seagulls scavenging for bread crumbs on the Santa Monica Pier. I smiled as they began snapping photographs at the precise moment I descended the escalator. I wondered if I would be appearing in People with the caption, “Cameron’s no diva -- she carries her own bags!” But when I passed the photographers, they didn’t stop taking pictures. I turned around and saw a real celebrity, Victoria “Posh” Beckham, carrying her real celebrity bags. I looked down at my worn Tano tote, my crummy Nine West sandals and my frayed two-year-old designer jeans. The uselessness of my Cameron Diaz resemblance suddenly struck me. Casually looking like a “somebody” doesn’t actually make me a “somebody” – regardless of what the little girl outside the Waffle thinks. I’m still me. Almost famous, but not really famous at all.
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