A Wentworth Miller fan who's also a columnist "speaks out"
One of my best friends sent this article in an email link thingy last December and I just re-discovered it in the bowels of my computer and wanted to share it. You've probably read this or received this, but it cheered me up tremendously and made me revel in the sheer joy of fangirldom.
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no pretensions about being as good or as funny a writer as Kim Moritsugu.
My Husband and my TV boyfriend by Kim Moritsugu
I might not need a TV boyfriend if motherhood, my married state and middle age hadn’t combined to make me invisible. If, when I venture out of the house, I were to catch the eye of even a semi-dishy male stranger, I might not now be involved with a certain handsome TV actor, on the side.
I would also deal better with being ignored in public if my body didn’t respond in an embarrassingly youthful manner on the rare occasions that I do encounter an appealing male. Such as when I was in a store recently with my teenage son, attempting to buy him a piece of sporting gear, and the sales clerk, a guy in his twenties with bright eyes, flawless skin and a headful of wavy hair, favoured me with a heartbreaker of a smile.
Though I no longer ovulate, my confused body reacted to his pheromones as if honing in on the DNA of an alpha male who could father my next child: my face flushed, my posture straightened, my pulse quickened, I licked my lips, and I starting making lame quips that caused my son to roll his eyes in response to the repellent idea of his mother flirting, by means of lame quips or otherwise. That was when the stunner who had caused all this turmoil looked not at, but through me and said, “So, what do you think, Mom? Can I take this up to the cash for you and ring it in?”
The “Mom” (way to blow the sale, dude) made me feel every year, month, day, hour and minute of my biological age.
Good thing I have my TV boyfriend to console myself with. Wentworth Miller, that is, of Prison Break fame. Went, to his friends.
Once a week, in season, Went and I hang out, for slightly less than an hour, in my living room. He talks, emotes, runs around (he plays an escaped prisoner), and shoots me and the camera the occasional white-hot, knee-buckling stare. As boyfriends go, he’s very low-maintenance: all I have to do is sit back and enjoy his company.
Went is my guy not just because he’s got great facial bone structure, a lovely tall, lean build, and gorgeous blue-green eyes. He’s also smart and cultured-he’s a Princeton grad, thank you very much, named after a character in a Jane Austen novel-and he consistently comes across in interviews as charming, thoughtful, and articulate. But his key attribute, the one that makes our relationship work so well, is that I will never know him.
Yes, it’s conceivable, though not likely, that I could one day meet him, if, let’s say, he made another promotional appearance in Toronto to publicize Prison Break, like he did last spring. If I knew in advance where and when a television bit was going to be taped, I could stake out the location, ask for an autograph when he emerged, and maybe get a fan picture taken of us together, his arm around my shoulders, a practiced polite smile on his face, a nauseous, is-this-really-happening expression on mine.
Not that I would do any of the research required to nail down his itinerary, or the stake-out hours required, or the approaching with camera in hand. Not me, a busy married woman with a career and household responsibilities and teenagers to wrangle and a few shreds of personal dignity left. The point is that I could, possibly, meet the object of my affection, and if I did, for 30 seconds or a minute, and spoke to him, and had a picture and autograph to show for it afterwards, I still wouldn’t know him.
The certainty that I haven’t a chance in hell or on earth with Went is what makes my husband, E, accept that I have a boyfriend at all. Though acceptance may not quite be what E demonstrated when he took the opportunity at recent family dinners-on more than one occasion, and on more than one side of the family-to announce to the assembled generations that I have a TV boyfriend and his name is Wentworth Miller. One might also question whether there isn’t a note of irritated exasperation in E’s voice when he asks how often I visit Internet sites dedicated to the other man in my life. Or when he catches me downloading a video or audio clip of Went that was originally broadcast on French television or Seattle radio, and says, “Are you out of your mind?”
If I seem a little unbalanced, according to some dusty old last-century mental health standards, then so do the crazies with whom I share my obsession, er, hobby. I’m a mere lurker on the message boards at The First Church of Wentworth Miller website, where a global community of regulars, hailing from five continents, make daily postings. They’re a funny, creative and technologically gifted bunch who’ve produced excellent fan fids, screen captures and photo manips, introduced me to what those strange new things are, and were hip early to YouTube and Flickr, tools to enable their devotion. And resourceful? With awe-inspiring zeal, these women have tracked down our hero’s senior college thesis, located and analyzed new candids of him the instant they appear online, and traveled cross-country to attend his public appearances.
The antics of my sisters in stalk entertain and amuse me, but I am not in their fearless league. I have not, for example, succumbed to an impulse I had, upon publication of my latest novel, to send it to Went, care of the show’s production company, along with a note billing the book as an amiable literary bagatelle (his college major was English literature, wouldn’t you know) with which he could while away the few hours during the long breaks on the set.
I still could, though.
When I floated that idea by my husband, he said that I was delusional to even consider it. I countered by telling him to get with the times-supporting every woman’s right to have a TV boyfriend is what’s expected of modern enlightened men who are one with the current pop cultural moment. And hey, E could have TV girlfriend too, if he wanted. I wouldn’t mind.
Yes and no. Unrequited emotion of any kind, be it love, lust or a friendly like, is mortifying, but less so when you don’t know the guy and never will. Plus, who says crushes are just for kids? My plan for aging, invisibility be damned, is to ignore conventional ideas of what constitutes age-appropriate behaviour and say and do what I please. That’s why, with E’s resigned blessing, any time I want to bask in the tender male gaze of a beautiful man, I need only turn on my computer, bring up an image of my TV boyfriend, blown up large on my screen, and swoon away.
Kim Moritsugu’s fourth novel, The Restoration of Emily, was recently serialized on CBC Radio’s Between the Covers.
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no pretensions about being as good or as funny a writer as Kim Moritsugu.
My Husband and my TV boyfriend by Kim Moritsugu
I might not need a TV boyfriend if motherhood, my married state and middle age hadn’t combined to make me invisible. If, when I venture out of the house, I were to catch the eye of even a semi-dishy male stranger, I might not now be involved with a certain handsome TV actor, on the side.
I would also deal better with being ignored in public if my body didn’t respond in an embarrassingly youthful manner on the rare occasions that I do encounter an appealing male. Such as when I was in a store recently with my teenage son, attempting to buy him a piece of sporting gear, and the sales clerk, a guy in his twenties with bright eyes, flawless skin and a headful of wavy hair, favoured me with a heartbreaker of a smile.
Though I no longer ovulate, my confused body reacted to his pheromones as if honing in on the DNA of an alpha male who could father my next child: my face flushed, my posture straightened, my pulse quickened, I licked my lips, and I starting making lame quips that caused my son to roll his eyes in response to the repellent idea of his mother flirting, by means of lame quips or otherwise. That was when the stunner who had caused all this turmoil looked not at, but through me and said, “So, what do you think, Mom? Can I take this up to the cash for you and ring it in?”
The “Mom” (way to blow the sale, dude) made me feel every year, month, day, hour and minute of my biological age.
Good thing I have my TV boyfriend to console myself with. Wentworth Miller, that is, of Prison Break fame. Went, to his friends.
Once a week, in season, Went and I hang out, for slightly less than an hour, in my living room. He talks, emotes, runs around (he plays an escaped prisoner), and shoots me and the camera the occasional white-hot, knee-buckling stare. As boyfriends go, he’s very low-maintenance: all I have to do is sit back and enjoy his company.
Went is my guy not just because he’s got great facial bone structure, a lovely tall, lean build, and gorgeous blue-green eyes. He’s also smart and cultured-he’s a Princeton grad, thank you very much, named after a character in a Jane Austen novel-and he consistently comes across in interviews as charming, thoughtful, and articulate. But his key attribute, the one that makes our relationship work so well, is that I will never know him.
Yes, it’s conceivable, though not likely, that I could one day meet him, if, let’s say, he made another promotional appearance in Toronto to publicize Prison Break, like he did last spring. If I knew in advance where and when a television bit was going to be taped, I could stake out the location, ask for an autograph when he emerged, and maybe get a fan picture taken of us together, his arm around my shoulders, a practiced polite smile on his face, a nauseous, is-this-really-happening expression on mine.
Not that I would do any of the research required to nail down his itinerary, or the stake-out hours required, or the approaching with camera in hand. Not me, a busy married woman with a career and household responsibilities and teenagers to wrangle and a few shreds of personal dignity left. The point is that I could, possibly, meet the object of my affection, and if I did, for 30 seconds or a minute, and spoke to him, and had a picture and autograph to show for it afterwards, I still wouldn’t know him.
The certainty that I haven’t a chance in hell or on earth with Went is what makes my husband, E, accept that I have a boyfriend at all. Though acceptance may not quite be what E demonstrated when he took the opportunity at recent family dinners-on more than one occasion, and on more than one side of the family-to announce to the assembled generations that I have a TV boyfriend and his name is Wentworth Miller. One might also question whether there isn’t a note of irritated exasperation in E’s voice when he asks how often I visit Internet sites dedicated to the other man in my life. Or when he catches me downloading a video or audio clip of Went that was originally broadcast on French television or Seattle radio, and says, “Are you out of your mind?”
If I seem a little unbalanced, according to some dusty old last-century mental health standards, then so do the crazies with whom I share my obsession, er, hobby. I’m a mere lurker on the message boards at The First Church of Wentworth Miller website, where a global community of regulars, hailing from five continents, make daily postings. They’re a funny, creative and technologically gifted bunch who’ve produced excellent fan fids, screen captures and photo manips, introduced me to what those strange new things are, and were hip early to YouTube and Flickr, tools to enable their devotion. And resourceful? With awe-inspiring zeal, these women have tracked down our hero’s senior college thesis, located and analyzed new candids of him the instant they appear online, and traveled cross-country to attend his public appearances.
The antics of my sisters in stalk entertain and amuse me, but I am not in their fearless league. I have not, for example, succumbed to an impulse I had, upon publication of my latest novel, to send it to Went, care of the show’s production company, along with a note billing the book as an amiable literary bagatelle (his college major was English literature, wouldn’t you know) with which he could while away the few hours during the long breaks on the set.
I still could, though.
When I floated that idea by my husband, he said that I was delusional to even consider it. I countered by telling him to get with the times-supporting every woman’s right to have a TV boyfriend is what’s expected of modern enlightened men who are one with the current pop cultural moment. And hey, E could have TV girlfriend too, if he wanted. I wouldn’t mind.
Yes and no. Unrequited emotion of any kind, be it love, lust or a friendly like, is mortifying, but less so when you don’t know the guy and never will. Plus, who says crushes are just for kids? My plan for aging, invisibility be damned, is to ignore conventional ideas of what constitutes age-appropriate behaviour and say and do what I please. That’s why, with E’s resigned blessing, any time I want to bask in the tender male gaze of a beautiful man, I need only turn on my computer, bring up an image of my TV boyfriend, blown up large on my screen, and swoon away.
Kim Moritsugu’s fourth novel, The Restoration of Emily, was recently serialized on CBC Radio’s Between the Covers.