Have you ever thought you were destined for something? Do you possess unconfirmed, yet irrefutable knowledge that a certain existence is meant for you?

Me, too.

Through all the iterations of life, I’ve never shaken the idea that I’m meant to be BFF’s with a celebrity. And when it happens, it’ll be so organic—and that’s why it’ll work.

I’m not positive how it’ll go down, but I have a pretty good idea. I’ll be using the restroom at a random Starbucks or Vitamin Shoppe and just as I’m wrapping up and about to flush, I’ll hear, “Ouch! Oh no!” coming from a few stalls down. Then I’ll hear whimpering and some pretty ambitious swearing.

I’ll be able to tell no one’s around but me and I’ll contemplate asking if she’s OK or just slipping out without washing my hands—ever mindful that wiping my hands on my jeans doesn’t actually kill germs—but knowing it might be worth the risk, since I just can’t be sure what I’m walking into. Is there some sort of embarrassing pain going on in there that I’ll never be able to un-see?

Then the swearing will become so impressive—in both creativity and delivery—that I’ll have to know more.

“Hey, uh—you OK in there?”
“I … don’t really think so.”
“How can I, I mean, do you want help?”
“Uh. Yeah? Could you maybe crawl under the stall door? I’m a little … I’m stuck.”

I’ll look around, trying to glean to the best of my knowledge, if I’m on the Ellen-Cam. I’ll see nothing but a fragrance shooter and decide I’m going in.

Once I complete my acrobatic entrance, I’ll see that this woman is stuck in the only way someone could get stuck if it was her worst day on Earth. She’ll be facing the back wall, left foot firmly on the ground, with her right leg submerged and her 4” heel fully wedged in the base of the bowl—toilet water up to her calf. Her purse will be draped embarrassingly tight around her neck—though safely suspended above the water.

I’ll laugh to myself because I do the same thing when there is no hook.

Her head will be down as she tries to avoid eye contact.

I’ll press my lips together to stifle a laugh, while deciding the best way to extract her.

She’ll begin to speak without looking up, “I always knew that karate kicking the flusher would bite me in the ass one day. Please, please—I’m begging you not to tweet this.”

Her request will interrupt the tweet I’m constructing in my head. I’ll reply quickly, “I’m only mind-tweeting. Why would I actually tweet this?!”

And she’ll look up … and it’ll be Tina Fey.

I’ll actually jump backwards a bit, hit the stall door and automatically say, “Blurgh!” Then I’ll spring into action and never stop talking while I attempt to loosen her from the grips of humiliation. I’ll no longer feel the need to laugh because I’ll have gone into protection mode.

That is, until we hear someone come in, making us keenly aware of our scene behind the stall door. We’ll both realize the utter absurdity of it all and know we’re going to explode with laughter (hers from stress hysteria, mine from regular hysteria), so we’ll cover our mouths, silent shake laughing until we have tears running down our cheeks.

Once we’re alone, I’ll finally get her loose by breaking the strap on her heel.

And this is how it’ll start. I’ll find out she’s filming a movie in town and on an afternoon break. I’ll offer to run her to my house or the mall … and for reasons we’ll later laugh about, she’ll accept.

I’ll joke about my Ford Escape—telling her to get ready for a pretty sweet ride and let her know we’ll be rollin’ on 16’s. I’ll ask her to keep her envy levels locked down when she sees bird droppings all over my windshield.

I won’t even have the chance to pretend I’m anything but super average, because as soon as we get in the car, I’ll remember my gas light is on. Yes, QuickTrip will be the first stop with my A-lister. Fantastic. I’ll pop my head in as I pump gas and ask if I can get her a Slim Jim or some pretzels. She’ll say she’s good and I’ll offer to get us Lotto numbers, impressing upon her the importance of getting in on the 14 million dollar jackpot—before I remember she’s worth 45 million. I’ll then ask her to get me Lotto numbers. And some Funyuns.

Once we’re gassed up and ready to rock, I’ll ask her how I can help.

“What size of shoes do you wear?” I’ll say, “7.5” and she’ll start clapping and light-squealing with the knowledge and relief that we share a shoe size.

“Uh, tap the brake there Liz Lemon. I don’t own any Louboutins.”

“Oh please,” she’ll wave, “Any heels will do!”

I’ll stare at her in an “we’re at an impasse” kind of way.

“I’m serious! Any shoes will do, promise!”

“If you say so. I hope you like Sperry and Nike. I also hope you’re good at living with regret—because I’m probably the only chick who won’t have something you like!”

“Um, Anna? You rescued me from public toilet water. My regret level is none percent. Besides, if I had my choice, I’d live in Chucks, so I’m sure we’ll be fine!”

She’ll let me know she doesn’t have to be back to the set for three hours, so we’ll fish around for something she can wear and spend the rest of the time talking over cold beers. One of the things we’ll recall down the road, that solidified us as friends, will be me reaching for wine (assuming it’s her poison) and her asking, “Actually, do you have any beer?”

I’ll take her to the garage to show her our beer fridge.

We’ll talk and sip for a couple of hours and what will touch me the most is how equally interested she is in my very average life as I am in hers.

We’ll bemoan having to get her back to the set, but we’ll also just “know” we’re friends now. We’ll have clicked and it’ll be as natural as anything—the connection, the tenor of our conversations, the ebb and flow, the similarities in our likes and dislikes. She’ll ask if I like to travel and if I’d be up for somewhat short-notice trips to various things. I’ll say, “I don’t know. Let me check with my secretary.” Then I’ll say, “Yep!”

We’ll carry on a decades-long friendship of her coming out my way for fuss-free time off and me meeting up with her for occasional premieres and annual get-aways with our families. I’ll teach her how to cook and she’ll teach me how to pose for photographers. I’ll show her what a beautifully normal life looks like and she’ll give me peeks into the fascinating, yet a-little-goes-a-long-way, Hollywood scene. She’ll even use some of my lines in her movies, then remind me of it when I don’t want to let her pay for my airfare.

I’ll get to meet Amy Poehler and Maya Rudolph. I’ll tell them about a movie idea I’ve been sorting out for years and they’ll exchange a bona fide look of genuine intrigue (Amy with her chin-down-head-tilted look and Maya with her chin-up-looking-down-the-bridge-of-her-nose look) and I’ll know I’m onto something. Little Alice will take a shine to Jocelyn and begin mimicking her every move and calling her Aunt LaLa—for reasons we’ll never know.

I’ll always marvel at—and appreciate that—she’ll seem just as interested in the new content management system we’re rolling out at work, as I am in her stories about Jason Batemen’s practical jokes on set. She’ll say things like, “Some of those gaffes are his buddies from his Silver Spoons days and he just torments them in every way imaginable. Like the other morning, he …” and I’ll say, “Shut. UP. That’s freakin’ hysterical. It reminds me in no way of the conversation I had with an assistant buyer today, where she wanted us to add inseam measurements to 4,000 pairs of jeans by Friday.” I’ll be teasing, but then she’ll ask, “What’s up Katie’s ass?” and I’ll smile at her remembering her name.

Since we text a lot and I’m her number one get-away-from-it-all friend, I’ll put her in my phone as “Granny” … so as to not shout my good fortune or blow her cover. She’ll tell me repeatedly that she doesn’t even care anymore; but, I’ll be so into the game by then that I refuse to change. I’ll love getting a spectacularly funny text from her when I’m at a baby shower with co-workers, because they’ll be curious and I’ll just say, “Oh, it’s just Granny. She’s a hoot.”

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