Surreal

The word is overused, but I can’t think of a better one to describe this coming week.

Okay, backstory: ten years ago my husband Steve Lieber illustrated a graphic novel called Whiteout, written by Greg Rucka.

A while after that, Wolfgang Petersen thought he might want to make a movie based on it, but he didn’t. Then Reese Witherspoon thought the same thing, but she didn’t, either. Then Joel Silver bought the rights, and he did. The red-carpet premiere is Wednesday night, and Steve and I are going to be there.

So, this event is utterly and completely not about me. I am attending in a spousal support capacity. Nonetheless, I have anxiety.

I didn’t think I did, so much. And then today, I realized: I’ve displaced all my anxiety about the trip into Extremely Specific Fashion-Related Quests.

Despite The Storied Glamour of Hollywood, I am certain that no one’s going to care what I look like. But if I obsess about finding neutral-toned fishnets, an exactly correct black tank top, and the precisely right pair of jeans to take with me, my brain has less room to worry about, you know, coming off like an idiot to any Important Hollywood People to whom I might randomly end up talking.