Generally speaking, I’m not the giddy type. I famously greeted my firstborn child with a “Well, hello there” in a sort of casual, off-hand way, as if I were passing her in the hallway on my way to lunch. My teen idols were usually safely dead (James Dean, Elvis) or moody broody pre-emo alt-rockers who would definitely think that giddiness was so uncool. There is, however, a certain gentleman who makes me giddy just hearing his voice.

For those of you not in the know, Ira Glass is the host of This American Life – an exceptional show on public radio that reveals our humanity through stories based around a different theme each week (there’s now a TV version of it on Showtime, which I haven’t actually seen, since I don’t get Showtime). If you haven’t already heard of/listened to This American Life, you must. It makes me laugh and makes me cry and I listen to it as I sit at my desk drawing and painting. And laughing and crying. And Ira Glass is the genius behind it all.

At any rate, a few months back, Mr. Glass was in Baltimore giving a talk about the show, and I became a member of my local NPR station just so that I could get tickets before they were available to the general public. Which, I guess, is kind of shameful, since I should have been a member already just because, but the whole Ira thing got me all fired up, which was probably all part of the plan (those sneaky fund-raising drives!). So, we went to the talk, and it was fascinating. The talk itself felt very much like the show – music cuing in to emphasize a point or create a transition, tidbits of studio recordings, friendly banter from Mr. Glass. The curious thing about it, though, was that there, sitting in the auditorium, you could see all of it happening: the leaning into and away from the microphone, the pressing of the buttons on the recordings, the shuffling around of papers and discs and equipment, and how it all came out seamlessly. It was a very different experience from just hearing it on the radio – it was like seeing the Great Oz behind his curtain, in a way. So anyway, the question and answer session came around, and for some completely unknown reason, I raised my hand to ask a question that I hadn’t quite formulated in my mind (this is, by the way, always a bad move). My question was sort of about the mechanics of the show, and how it all seems very casual as you hear it, but is clearly very carefully orchestrated to have the strongest emotional impact. But somehow in getting around to formulate that question (and, perhaps I can blame my giddiness for this) I actually asked Ira Glass if he felt like a puppetmaster. Like he was manipulating all of us. I even made a ridiculous hand gesture like I was a marionettist or something. Well, he was pretty graceful about his answer, but clearly didn’t like being called manipulative. I was horrified.

I promptly came home and wrote a long apology, which I sent off to the This American Life headquarters with a handful of our books. I explained how I listen to the show all the time while I’m working, how I contribute to Chicago Public Radio just because of the show, and how even though I called him a puppetmaster, I didn’t really mean it. Pretty soon afterwards, I got a very nice email from the show’s producer, who said she had forwarded the packet on to Mr. Glass.

Well, yesterday, I got this in the mail:

Redemption! Hooray! Ira Glass doesn’t think I’m a total ass! Or, if he does, he doesn’t actually say it! AND – he called our books “perfect little human objects”! Joy! I return to being giddy, instead of searingly ashamed. Plus, I have a piece of paper with his actual handwriting on it. I mean, fandom doesn’t get any better than this.

But as I bask in my renewed giddiness, I also realize that there’s another impish gentlemen in glasses who makes me giddy. And a little girl in a funny hat. And a brand new bundled baby.

Sometimes it’s okay not to be too cool for school. Some things really deserve giddy.