Originally published in July 2019
When I opened Chelsea Handler’s new book, Life Will Be The Death Of Me, I took a photo of the first page and sent it to my best friend with the text, “I’m going to do this.” On it was a list of all six of Chelsea’s best-selling books. I meant what I said.
I don’t really laugh out loud. I find things funny, but you kind of have to be Chris Rock and I kind of have to be two glasses deep to get me to make audible sounds when prompted. Chelsea Handler’s new book, actually all six of Chelsea Handler’s books, genuinely made my steel-toed ass laugh out loud — she always does. In my opinion she is gifted in every way a funny person can be gifted. It makes me jealous, naturally, but it also stokes the fires of kindling and old Doritos bags beneath my ass and makes me suit up.
I am a humor essayist. NPR said it about me once so I know it’s true. One of my biggest goals in life is to write books. Plural. I’ve always felt somewhat self conscious about this, knowing that I massively prefer writing non-fiction over fiction but it’s fiction that’ll really buy ya a house upstate. I guess I’ve somewhat questioned if what I want in life is even possible. I think that’s why I’m drawn to Chelsea, because she makes me believe there’s an appetite for making people laugh while telling the truth on paper.
Her most recent offering is her most vulnerable (not her most honest, Chelsea has always been as unfiltered as cigarettes in old war movies) and therefore it generated more cathartic laughs for me than anything she’s penned before. It’s pretty clear that she’s examining her life in a way she hasn’t yet, and working on some shit she never thought she’d need to address. I think we all have parts of our brains we’ve sealed in old Amazon boxes with packing tape and figured that was “addressing” things enough for us. But you actually have to dig into storage and Marie Kondo the fuck out of what’s inside if you’re going to be a version of yourself that won’t make you cringe later.
So let’s take stock: She’s working on herself as a person, making people laugh, and earning money by writing books popular enough to buy in the airport. Chelsea Handler is who I want to be when I grow up.
This. Shit. Right. Here.
To some degree. I have no desire to vomit, shit myself, or inconveniently express any kind of bodily fluid in a Peruvian jungle while an ayahuasca trip presents me with my own customized mythical vision board. I also prefer cats to dogs and feel awkward about the idea of having a household staff. (To be fair, I’ve never been able to afford one, this could change when I grow up to be Chelsea.)
But celebrity-inspired life goals are just part of it. What Chelsea is really doing is showing me the kind of author I want to be. I want to express vulnerability and honesty that scare me and probably my family. I want to address the things other writers won’t, because maybe it will make other people feel less alone, and certainly it will make me feel better. But more than anything she’s living proof to me that if I want to be a comedian, my stage fright and I never have to set foot on a stage, and it’s okay that I prefer to be funny on paper. In my opinion, Chelsea Handler is at her funniest when she’s not in the room.
As a 37-year-old single female writer, I’m often told I’m “too” something for whatever it is that I want. Too intimidating to date, too ambitious to succeed, or just too much person in general. Can a person be too much person? Is that what being extra means? Help.
Chelsea is too a lot of things. She’s too loud, too aggressive, too medicated, all kinds of toos that she very clearly couldn’t give less of a shit about. Societal toos are irrelevant to Chelsea, at least from the standpoint of someone who only knows her through her work. She’s built the life she wants around her, while being the person she wants to be, and becoming the person she wants to become—not by changing that person into someone society might hug more.
I think it’s easier to hold onto my dreams and goals, and certainly easier for me to hold tight to them as possibility rather than fantasy, when I see other women doing the things I want to do. Living examples showing me I’m not crazy, I’m not an idiot, and I’m not too anything for what I want. Someone else who was too did it, and so can I.
If you haven’t read her new book, you’ve got some time on a beach towel coming up so get it done. Yes, you will see a side of Chelsea Handler none of us have seen before (which is saying something), but you will also laugh into a book hard enough for people to scoot further away from you on public transit which is a blessing. I am very grateful to Chelsea as an author for showing me it’s possible to be truly funny on paper, and to pay your bills with it at the same time. Yes, she’s a fucking celebrity and I still ride the subway to the grocery store, but if you’re thinking of telling me my dreams are too big for me, good luck.