I want to be famous.
Well, perhaps not famous as such; I’d highly dislike (notice the exclusion of “hatred” terminology there?) to be swamped by paparazzi everywhere I went. But well known. Recognised. An established name.
I love attention. I’m the first to admit it. I love the spotlight on me, I love to be the centre. Especially when I have been partial to the drink, that draw to be at the forefront is so immense I’m like a moth to a flame, a mosquito to succulent blood, a piece of metal flung full force at a magnet. Look at me! Look at me! Look at me! Which is so at odds when it comes to my self belief and self confidence, which at times can be crippling.
Being on TV has always been my ultimate goal. Reading the news, hosting Breakfast, snuffling Sam Wallace’s job and forecasting the weather each daybreak. When Jim Hickey retired I pined for his job. Imagine that! Pop every night at prime time, all eyes on me.
A part (a good portion, I’ll admit it) still harbours hope for that. Not stardom, but to be able to be spotted and fawned over from afar by strangers.
But today I realised something.
My priorities are changing. Instead of wanting to be well known to a vast array of the public, I’m starting to change to want to be well known to the circle of people in my everyday life as a good person.
Instead of, “That’s Poppy”, “There’s Poppy Wortman!” and maybe the odd signature (hey, I know I sound like a tosser) from strangers on the street, I’d prefer that my maybe my aunty might think “Wow, Poppy is a kind hearted soul” or that a family friend may hold me in a high regard. Not discussed or talked of, but in the internal minds of people being considered as a decent being.
Fame and fortune is losing it’s allure. Peace with myself, with others and being genuinely and innately selfless is increasingly becoming the dream over a studio slot.