As I was leaving the UPS store, I saw someone I recognized and instinctively went to say, “Hi.”  Then I realized it was Johnny Benson.  He seemed familiar from the media, and while we have been introduced, I do not pretend to know him.  So I backed up, tossed the Camry into drive and sped off to dinner at a local restaurant.

While headed to the ladies’ room at the restaurant, I saw a menu mounted on the wall.  Emblazoned on the front was “Michael Waltrip 55”.  As I sat upon the “thinking seat”, I pondered fame.  I decided it could be crappy (pardon the pun).

You know that feeling you get went you are mid-chew and the waitress asks if you need anything?  Well, imagine what it would be like if someone walks up to you looking like a deer in the headlight and begs for your autograph.  So much for just a burger and fries with friends…

How else would it change my life, this enigma known as fame?  Would I have to shower just to go grocery shopping?  Will people judge the food in my cart more harshly?  Would I have to defend my purchase of gjetost cheese?  I’d spend countless hours explaining that it is pronounced YEAY-toast and why I love its caramelly goodness on apples.  Would people call me anti-American for desiring a Norwegian dairy product?

This brings up the whole sponsor thing.  If they are giving you money, you have to use their products.  With my luck, some pee-in-a-can beer would be my primary and I’d be seen downing a real brew like a stout.  Oops.

My social skills would also be cause for concern.  I have all the graces of a demented mongoose.  Photos would appear of me scratching my butt crack or worse.  Since I tend to be blunt, opinionated and cold-hearted, the media will have a field day passing judgment on my every word.  Would I have to debate the merits of my own words? 

Oh, I just caught sight of my self in the mirror and it was not pretty.  Let’s just say that God gave me all the girl equipment, but forgot to include an instruction manual.  Make-up and hairdressing skills escape me totally.  My clothes are chosen more on the ability to hide my body than to instill a sense of fashion.  Would I need to hire a personal stylist?  Can you hire a personal stylist?  Does anybody out there know a personal stylist?

Dating must be a problem.  I would have to wonder why every person was interested in me.  Well, I do this now, but I’d have to add that whole fame thing to the fact that I am a book nerd who lives with a cat.  What are the intentions of the relationship?  Would it just be so he could be seen with me or does he just want access to my collection of Colin Dexter novels?

In reality, all of this is for naught.  I am more likely to become famous for something embarrassing (“Woman Squashed by Vending Machine - Eats All Candy Bars before Dying”) than a skill I possess. Therefore, legions of fans will not flock to me as I fill up my gas tank.

To be honest, I am curious to see if any of these thoughts are what really occur to people.  If any drivers, crew chiefs, or other racing authorities out there wish to contact me and let me know if I hit the mark or not, I promise not to publish your responses.  However, I doubt there will be any responses.  After all, it is not like I am a famous journalist or anything.

E-mail Kimmie to discuss fame, books, or your favorite cheese by clicking here:  EMAIL KIM