Awards season.
Honestly, most people just call it February, but some wait the whole
year—even their whole lives—for that time when “who are you wearing” becomes
more important than who you are with, and the joy of being nominated causes a
city-wide spike in the sale of lemons, maple syrup, cayenne pepper, and
laxatives. For all of us working stiffs
in Los Angeles, awards season is just that time of the year when traffic in
West L.A. gets even more obnoxiously unpredictable, and in particular for me,
when those annoying road closures and detours make it impossible to drive to the
best juice bar in Weho to get my favorite Sunday beet-ginger-green drink. I actually have to walk. And it’s cold that time of year. I sometimes even have to wear a light jacket.
Seriously. Most of us
have real champagne quality problems. Missing my Sunday juice won’t break me,
just like losing an award won’t break anybody in Hollywood. However, winning that award can make a
career. By Monday, nobody’s talking
about who lost the naked man. All that
matters is who the winner is.
Whether it’s a green drink or a golden statue, everybody
wants a win. Some thing that makes you feel
like you’re living the dream, kicking ass and taking names, on top of the
world. For example, my client—let’s call
her Emmy—she’s a junior at a major agency who works twenty-five hour days
(workouts out for an additional three), got straight A’s at a top B-school, and
currently has her sights set on a big promotion that will only result in a
little increase to her salary, but a sizeable increase to her statue—I mean stature—in the business. It’s not even a “thing” she can touch, but
she wants them to give it to her because it will mean they like her…they
really, really like her. And we all just
want to be liked. The problem is, Emmy’s
desperate need to be liked is resulting in an aversion to being licked. And that’s where I come in.
Emmy doesn’t have time for a boyfriend; she’s too busy
running the Santa Monica Stairs up the Hollywood corporate ladder to bother
with a crazy little thing called love. Rather,
Emmy has historically used sex and a steady stream of short-term romantic
entanglements to fill the space on her internal mantle until she can replace it
with the big award, which for Emmy, is career success. At this point, Emmy is so close to winning
that she’s lost her orgasm. But man
alive, is she looking for it! Literally. In every man alive.
In just the past two months, Emmy’s run the gamut of passion
prizes. There was the guy with the
golden globes. She said his nipples were
so shiny and perky, she felt like they were staring at her—giving a whole new
synopsis to The Hills Have Eyes. Then there was the SAG. She said his scrotal sack was so saggy, she
couldn’t keep her head in the game. It
was like being spanked with wet tennis ball-filled gym socks—that doesn’t
exactly lend itself to love, set, match.
Then there was the super intense, hipster-intellectual she picked up
while dropping off her laundry at the Fluff-and-Fold. She got him back to her place and quickly
realized he was her Independent Spirit—a lotta talk, not much action. But really, none of these guys stood a chance
because Emmy was holding out for her Oscar.
Her boss, Oscar Lazar. This is
the week Oscar will tell her if she’s won the promotion. But what I told Emmy was, as soon as she wins
it, there will just be another prize she’ll need to win. I’ve tried to help her see that there is no
person, place, or thing that can ever successfully satisfy an insatiable need
for success.
If Emmy wants to win back her orgasm, she’s going to have to
get over her fear of losing. So often
the fear of losing isn’t about those catastrophic losses, rather the every day
ones…the mundane things-to-do list that is life. I don’t know about you, but sometimes it
feels like I need my own personal tickertape parade every time I do anything
good. If I let someone merge into my
lane during rush hour, or breathe in an extra four seconds at yoga, or get
through a week without canceling any of my therapy sessions, I genuinely want
trumpets to sound, and Beyoncé to perform, and red carpets to roll out in
congratulations and celebration that this week, Lainey, you didn’t suck. It’s indoctrinated in infancy! Sit still, and you’ll get a cookie. Be good, and you’ll get a toy. We’re taught that there will always be a
reward when we put in an effort—and the bigger the effort, the bigger the
reward. Right? Wrong.
In real, grownup life, that’s just not true. That type of thinking ensures that even if you’re doing everything right, if there’s no prize at the
end, you end up feeling like a big loser.
But, when you think of it, everyday we are all losing some prize or
another. Most of us didn't win an Emmy, or Golden
Globe, or an Oscar this year, and it didn’t matter. That’s the key to relieving anxiety—find a
way to make it (whatever that “it” is for you) not matter so much. Emmy has stopped experiencing physical
pleasure because the pain of her need for emotional validation in the form of
professional success has blocked it. I’m
encouraging Emmy to let this week be about letting go of the need, so she can really get what she wants.
If she doesn’t need the success, the success will surely come. And so will she.