Jackass

An open letter to Johnny Knoxville:

I wanna start by apologizing. This letter is coming like 20 years delayed. I remember all the boys talking about Jackass and almost instantly concluding that I wasn't the target demographic. The information that never made it across my desk at the time was that you were a *total fox*. I'm a little pissed, to be honest. I like to be kept up to speed with things.

But here we are. Message received. At the age of 34, I'm hanging my head and admitting to having a celebrity crush. It's shy of a full on parasocial relationship but it's not a secret that you fine. Did I tell you I love you letting your hair go gray yet?

I love that you were a writer, I love that you did it in a magazine. I used to love magazines, they were a total luxury, something I could never make a real case for my mom to spend money on, but every once in a while I get one and devour it.

I can't imagine we  have much in common. I've mostly tried to avoid bodily harm over the years. But we're both alive, and you have crazy stories, so I think maybe you came out ahead.

You shouldn't let the fact that I haven't broken a bone make you think I don't live a dangerous life though. My strategy has been to go a little smaller with it, try to incorporate little moments of defiance where I can, quiet moments to remind myself that I do have some control over the events in and around myself, that really add up.

Like, for example: at the end of every work day, with my bag already slung over my shoulder, I walk, head held high to the fridge in our open plan office and take out a La Croix. I pop it open, then I walk back past everyone and leave. No one actually cares that I take an extra passion fruit flavored seltzer for my commute, but they see me. "She must not give a fuck," they think, astutely.

Of course the little show is backed up by my being excellent at my job. You seem to be great at yours, as long as number of medical emergencies hasn't been a KPI.

Let's see, what other daredevil behavior is there in the rotation?

When a woman is working from the opposite end of the clothing rack toward me, I always play chicken, and I never lose. I just keep moving closer and closer toward the middle, waiting for her to give up. They always do, eventually. I'm usually quick to apologize to strangers when they step on my foot, cover the guy who forgot his wallet at the coffee shop, ask them where they got their shoes. But in that scenario, I always feel the need to assert that I have every right to be at this Alo Yoga and that you can move.

A celebrity crush. It's mortifying. I'm too old and cynical. At some point I had decided that if civilian men were behaving like they're famous, then the famous men must be actually unbearable, and the incredibly average guys around me have been especially embarrassing lately.

But then, 20 years late, I saw who “Johnny Knoxville” actually was: how he talks, what he says (and you act now? who knew!), all topped with a head of snow white hair a k-pop star would pay a full time colorist to maintain and I gotta say it's really working for me.

Keep up the good work,

-Rose