I was working my own last nerve. Have you ever gotten on your own nerves? I would start one script, then search for fares on Kayak, then my boss would call and remind me to get crackin'. A high maintenance client kept asking us to remove footage of minority babies for an FDA approval piece I was producing. First it was a suggestion to use another "Caucasian baby" which I found pretty transparent in its racism but obliged. Then today they asked that we remove another black baby because she appeared to be older than 18 months, she was 15. In addition to this minutiae, I was supposed to correct language in the script which I neglected to do accurately because my mind had wandered yet again. It was one thing after another today signalling the necessity for Ritalin.
My propensity for self-medicating has been documented before and I'm headed there again. As yet another deadline loomed and I scrambled for a tape that was literally in front of my dumb face, I told my coworkers that I needed Ritalin. "Try wellbutrin," one of them suggested adding, "it's worked wonders for me. I don't let things get to me, my thoughts aren't racing like they used to." I suppressed a guffaw because I had witnessed him have no less than three minor meltdowns in just the last week. This is why I love this place, all of us are delusional.
Anyway, last night I went to a scholarship banquet for minority journalists and came face to face with my idol, CNN Chief Correspondent Christiane Amanpour. I didn't know if it would happen. I figured she'd have a swarm of obsequious fans clamoring for her attention. But fate intervened and it was as if the crowded parted when I saw her. I walked over and introduced myself. Then I reminded her of when we first met.. sort of. I was an intern at CNN in D.C. when The Washington Post published an article called "The Amanpour Factor."
The story was about how her reporting was making such an impact on public opinion around the world that military and political leaders were actually factoring her into their strategy in Bosnia. She smiled remembering the article and our subsequent email exchange. Then we talked about Iran where she's from and I was born. But even though I was having an insightful discussion with my idol in a professional way, I was acutely aware of the magnitude of this moment. This is a woman I've admired for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS! And so my body betrayed my composed facade and I began to sweat profusely. It was embarrassing. Here I was having this amazing conversation and I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Mortified at the thought of them actually trickling down my face (I'm not a sweater, mind you), I opted to wrap things up. "I don't want to monopolize your time," I suggested. "But it's an honor to meet you." She was very gracious and after two pictures ("one for safety"- a TV term) we parted ways.
