How to meet Meryl Streep

An oldie but goodie from 2005, when neither Meryl nor I were dating Martin Short.

There are many, many things you must not do right now.

But there is one thing you must do: stay calm.

Breathe as deeply as you can, which is not very deeply at all. Your ribs are caving in from the pressure of your high-waisted Spanx, a very slow-motion car wreck.

In case you lost consciousness, you are now standing two feet away from Meryl Streep, under the suspended halves of a very large boulder belonging to her husband, artist Don Gummer.

Listen to her husband speak shyly into a microphone about this installation of his; learn that it is titled Primary Separation. Consider your own primary separation: you are less than a yard away from your favorite person that you have never met, and she will never know that you risked your life squirming into two foundation garments just to be here.

The master of ceremonies takes a minute to state the obvious, hoping that any gawkers will get it over with, once and for all:

Don’s wife, Meryl, is a unique artist in her own right.

Everyone chuckles as if we’re all at a dinner party, all the best of friends. Meryl graciously smiles and ducks her head, and focus shifts back to her husband, the boulder-chopper.

Meryl Streep is a proud wife today and it is charming to see. Watch as she and her daughter snap pictures of Don with their shiny cellphones. Wonder how many of these events they have attended. Wonder what it is like to be Meryl Streep’s daughter and to own such fabulous motorcycle buckle boots at such a young age. Wonder what the Streep-Gummers keep in their refrigerator, and if their pets do unspeakable things to their rugs. One of the reasons you like Meryl so much is that you can so easily imagine her swearing under her breath as she scrapes dog poo out of a braided rug. You can picture her running out for ice cream at 10 pm in a hopelessly unattractive parka, or in bed in Connecticut with the flu, blowing her nose and laughing hysterically in her oldest flannel pajamas as she reads an article her publicist has sent her, a piece that describes her as Hollywood royalty.

You’re starting to sweat. Stay calm. Repeat your mantra: Do not do the things you must not do. Do not do the things you must not do.

It’s not that it is hard for you not to do these things; it’s just that your brain likes to try to convince you that you have already done these things and embarrassed yourself in a public place. You know that your brain is lying to you, but for some reason, you live in a constant, uneasy state of pre-humiliation. In the short time that you have been standing here, your brain has already logged a series of very vivid images of you doing various Things You Must Not Do:

• pun uncontrollably about boulders to Meryl (I’m in between a rock and a heart place, because I HEART YOU MERYL STREEP)

• reveal that you almost fell over a banister from the force needed to yank up your double Spanx situation

• tell her that you have the same birthday and that you have always interpreted this as a sign that spending $70k on acting school was a really good move

• let her know that you, too, also have a knack for the accents and then invite her to do an accent battle right there on the spot

You mustn’t. You mustn’t do any of these things. Tell your brain if it doesn’t knock it off, you will dash your skull against the Donald Gummer art boulder, so help you God. Today, you are a cool, unbothered art lover.

When the official remarks conclude, head across the street to the museum with the crowd for a reception and a tour of some of Gummer’s early work. Your friend with museum connections has put you on the list. YOU ARE ON THE LIST. You are never on the list. This is big.

The Spanx are slipping down your hips now so you are walking the way your Barbies used to walk across the red shag carpeting in your childhood basement, kind of a stiff waddle.

Meryl follows you. Right behind you, she and Lou, the magnificent motorcycle-booted offspring. Your heels are actually tingling. A fine day! A marvelous day!

So far, you have not wheeled around and attempted a single rock pun. You have not confessed to anyone present that you are wearing two foundation garments.

At the museum entrance, give your name. Receive an ugly sticker and slap it on your muzzled bosom, which is trying to exit the top end of the outer Spanx Tube of Death. Make a beeline for the wine. Try hard to think about art. It is difficult for a serf to think about art in a room full of vassals, especially when one is a serf who is usually feeding pigs or sloshing human waste out of the window of her thatched hut. But you can pull this off.

So far, none of the vassals has noticed you. But you know they will if you make the mistake of opening your mouth. Press your plastic cup against your lips and think of pigs and dogs and stolen elk meat. Watch your step. Vassals, vassals everywhere, and so many drinks to drop on the floor.

Don Gummer’s exhibition is in a narrow gallery space. You will witness many tastefully dressed persons milling about, saying intelligent, rational things to each other. These people are either being careful not to glance in Ms. Streep’s direction, or they are very good at compartmentalizing and doing the thing that they are here to do, which is, simply, pondering Don Gummer’s art.

Envy them. Stare despondently at a family of rocks resting contentedly upon a row of steel wires and wonder which one is Meryl and which one is Lou. You are not a good compartmentalizer. Everything you see and hear and know is connected to everything else. You feel too much, all the time, and Meryl Streep is 20 feet away from you. You can’t think about Don’s rocks and boulders. You are thinking about Meryl’s white tote: Is it a Birkin? If so, surely a gift? Meryl seems far too sensible to drop $15K on a white bag that would be impossible to keep clean.

Across the room, Meryl is flanked by very important-looking people. Human buffers: They do not leave her side. She must be protected from people like you at all costs.

As you reach for another garlicky steamed green bean (they are being served one at a time, so many toothpicks), your mother appears in a little devil suit on your right shoulder. She whispers, Remember you did that wonderful Polish accent in that Holocaust play in Portland. And don’t forget that time you played the nice Manchester granny. You have to tell Meryl.

Whisper, Shhhh.

Offer your imaginary mother a steamed green bean to shut her up. She refuses the green bean and jabs you in the cheek with her pretend pitchfork. Go say hello. Introduce yourself. She’ll love you.

Shake your head vehemently. It would be terribly rude to barge into Meryl’s inner circles. This is not what this day is about. This day is simply about the molecules. Meryl Streep Molecules are enough. It is a binary equation: yesterday, you had never been in the same room with Meryl Streep Molecules. Today, you have. That should be good enough for anyone, especially a serf who’s still got hog feed on her chin.

Reach for a red grape, then realize that the hand that has just plucked a grape off the same cluster belongs to Meryl Streep’s willowy daughter. Lou tromps in her miraculous boots over to some equally willowy, chic friends. Realize that you, personally, would be disturbed if a stranger evidenced any excitement about eating a grape from the same cluster as one of your daughters. Look neutral. Back away from the grapes and from Meryl and Don’s child.

Your imaginary mother yanks on a lock of your hair and sticks her head in your ear again. Go on, talk to her. Tell her you’re a screenwriter! An actress! A playwright! Tell her you write a blog! She’ll love the blog!

Shake your head vigorously like a horse plagued by flies. Imaginary mother sighs and takes off the devil costume. I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed.

You are running out of art to look at. You have already said hi to the two people that you know. Decide that this is it for the afternoon. You have drunk your fill of Meryl Streep Molecules. After one more gallery sweep, you will head back to your life of serfdom, with no regrets. This day will still have been better than the last.

Near the back of the gallery, you realize there are two graphite drawings that interest you — one of a deceased pigeon, and another that is a series of tiny, wonderful sketches of a twisted gum eraser. Inch closer. Look at you, looking at the art. You like these drawings. You like them very much. Back in the carefree days when you were a happy, Birkenstocked Studio Art major, sculpture was not your thing, but drawing was. You have always been amazed by what the eye can see in dirt on paper. These drawings are right up your alley, except you wish the pigeon was alive to appreciate its moment in the spotlight.

There is no more for you here, no more pigeon art, no more erasers or boulder fragments. Reluctantly head for the door at the end of the narrow exhibit hall. Glance to your right: another piece, three stones half-sunk in metal boxes submerged in red earth. Its title: Stay.

Someone jostles your arm suddenly, an expensive-looking man who has just walked away from a chat with Don Gummer, the same Don Gummer who is now standing right behind you.

Don Gummer, Meryl Streep’s husband, is a nice-looking, slightly crumpled fellow who looks like he would prefer to be wearing anything other than his tan tweed suit jacket. He is alone, no buffer in sight. He looks as uncomfortable as you feel.

Carpe the moment. Realize to your surprise that you actually have a question. Smile at him before you lose your nerve. He smiles slightly, wary but willing. Hear yourself say something like, I’m sure you’re really tired of all the schmoozing but would it be all right if I asked you a question?

Excuse me for interrupting, says Meryl Streep warmly. Didn’t mean to break in like that.

Meryl Streep is apologizing to you. For interrupting.

Carpe everything you can muster. In a microsecond, her people will realize she is gliding loose on the chessboard, out of the range of her knights and bishops.

She laughs. This is graciousness, pure and simple. Already, people are closing in on her. You must be quick about embarrassing yourself. Hurry.

Realize what it is that you want to say. Realize you don’t want anything from her, don’t expect anything, don’t need anything. Realize that what you want to say is thanks, no matter how forgettable this will be to her, no matter how silly this will seem to you in the morning.

Let the words lurch forth. Let them fall where they may. You mean well, you know you do. Hopefully she will hear it in your voice, even if she can’t decipher the moist, muddled mess of your words.

Tell her that she must hear this all the time, but that you just want to say thank you, because she has been a joy and a delight and an inspiration to you for a very long time, for as long as you can remember. She smiles politely, but she is suddenly distracted by several quickly approaching persons. Quick. Do not do all the things that you must not do. There’s not enough time. Do only one of these things.

Say, I know it’s ridiculous but you and I have the same birthday.

Her eyes widen and she leans in. Really? she asks, interested and seemingly chuffed. June 22nd?

Nod like a maniac. Don’t hold back; surrender to the Stupid Side. You only live once. You may never again be standing next to grapes and rocks and pictures of dead pigeons while you chat with Meryl Streep. The knights and bishops are closing in fast.

Say, I was born the morning of your 21st birthday I know it’s crazy but I always took it as a sign and it inspired me to become an actor.

You’re kidding, she says. You’re kidding!

She is laughing and you are laughing. If she is faking it, she really is the best actress on Earth.

Now her husband is handing back the phone to her, and someone else is suddenly talking to her, overriding your silly, serfy words. The important person takes Meryl by the elbow and pulls her away. As she is being led off, she turns her head and casts you an apologetic glance. The conversation is over. You understand. You are okay with this, surprisingly okay. There are pigs to slop, but you will slop them more cheerfully now. Watch her go.

Meryl Streep concludes her cellphone chat, then turns. She takes two deliberate steps back to you. She smiles warmly at you, at all of your ridiculous fangirl splendor and exploding Spanx.

She reaches for your left hand in farewell and squeezes it warmly, for a very long moment. Her face says that she knows that your conversation ended abruptly, and she does not want to be rude.

It is a lovely gesture and the only thing that is holding you up are rigid spandex panels.

And then, just like that, she is gone, whisked away by handlers, spun off into her world.

She will not think of you on her way home tonight. She will probably take her shoes off in the car and ask her daughter how she can walk in those boots and did she remember to sign up for SAT prep? She will tease her husband about the shy, adorable way he held the microphone under his big rock. But if anyone hypnotizes her 20 years later about this particular day, this particular event at MASS MoCA, maybe to solve a crime, or for a TV special where they hypnotize famous people who have stood by artwork made from chopped boulders, Meryl Streep will say in a dreamy voice, There was a dark-haired woman there, so svelte, almost aerodynamic. And we had the same birthday. And she was an actor! Can you believe it? Can you?