I went to my first official book signing tonight, and it was Carl Hiaasen. He is funny, and handsome, and on top of that, seems a very decent, sweet human being. Which means, of course, that I’m in awe of him, and had about a 5% chance of keeping my shit together while in proximity. I leave it to you to determine how well I did.

The events unfolded roughly as follows:

7:55: It’s about 30 minutes before my row will be dismissed to stand up and queue to get our books signed. The rest of me is a comfortable temperature, but for some reason, I feel an intense heat in my cheeks. I dismiss it as a highly concentrated heat wave peculiar to that 6-inch space of Pasadena.

8:27: In line, on my feet. The heat has dissipated, presumably having been successful in melting key shit-keeping-together synapses. I’m assaulted by worries, some of them very strange: “What if I trip on him and knock over the table? What if he refuses to take a selfie with me? Does my hair smell like chicken nuggets? Can I sniff my hair to check? No. Weird. Stop.”  (I have not had chicken nuggets in the last month.)

8:36: I’m almost at the front. My phone is ready. I’m ready. I mean to tell him I love his books. I intend to confess that I’m nervous. I think of a question to ask him, but then dismiss it as too many words to have to deliver coherently. Keep it easy, right? Yeah. Easy.

8:41: I arrive at the table. He smiles, says hello. I make some noises, high-pitched, which now do not actually resemble words in my memory. The moment is catapulting forward, and I’m still making some kind of noise in my throat. He’s looking at my name on the Post-it, and says, charmingly, “G-I-A-N-G. Help me out here?” Obviously, asking me how to pronounce it, so he can say my name as he signs the book, because that’s what charming authors do. Only, because I’m having some kind of episode, I think, “Oh, is he asking me how to spell my name? I’ll help him. I can help. I can do this!”

So, I grin and squeak out, “G!”

Almost 37 years of training for grown womanhood obliterated in a soppy pool of gush at my feet in 10 seconds flat. Thankfully, though, (and I might have mentioned this before?) he’s extremely charming, and kindly defuses my awkwardness with smiles, beautifully consents to taking a selfie with me, compliments me on my selfie skills (a lie, a damnable lie), shakes my hand, thanks me for coming out and waiting in the line, and tells me he hopes I enjoy his book.

I love him, everyone. I love him utterly.

Life Goal #something complete.  XD