Gaga, Migraines, and the Myth of Having It All Together

I don’t have imposter syndrome, per se; it’s more like…immature syndrome. Let me explain.

At some point in the past five or so years, I picked up an odd habit. Any time I encounter someone I find particularly compelling in real life or on the internet that seems roughly around my age, I immediately must find out exactly how old they are. If they’re older than I am — even by a few months — I breathe a deep sigh of relief that comes from the knowledge that I still have 90 days, give or take, to figure out my life. I’m only slightly joking, and I think the fixation has become more intense as my 30s go on, because I still don’t really feel like I’m in my 30s yet, despite being less than two years away from the big 4–0. Gulp. A practice I began to temporarily ease my anxiety unnecessarily fuels it instead by tricking me into believing there’s something missing or that I’m “behind” when, in reality, timelines are totally fictional.

For example, a few months ago, I was watching a house tour on YouTube by a woman whom I’d never heard of; an interior designer in L.A. who owned a gorgeous, multi-million dollar Spanish-style home. I slowly and meticulously took her in: long, sun-kissed, dirty blonde hair that was clearly recently cut — but also somehow casual and tousled — and recalled a breezy, Laurel Canyon folk singer in the ’60s. A perfectly-tailored pair of boot-cut jeans and a slouchy, ribbed, cream-colored sweater (french tucked, of course) that simultaneously looked bohemian and expensive.

Through some Google recon, I determined that this woman was 38. That’s impossible, I thought. You’re telling me that this living, breathing embodiment of a *grown-up*, who looked like she stepped right off the set of a Nancy Meyers movie (and had a home to match), was just a matter of months older than I am? Rude. Offensive. Extremely uncool. I looked down at my bright blue fingernails, my tarnished snake ring, and my still-healing disco ball tattoo, and looked back up at the screen. Is there any way I could attain the sophistication of this woman who, allegedly, has been on the planet just slightly longer than I have? Would I want to?

The vibe I’m describing cannot be explained simply with career accomplishments, status symbols, clothing, property, or even age. It’s a sort of je na sai quoi that you either possess or don’t, and I fear that I just do not have it and never will. There’s a sense of mystery, quiet glamour, and intrigue that surrounds these women, whereas I’m far too obvious, open, silly, and goofy. If I like something, you’re going to know about it, and if I don’t like something, my face will give it away in short order. I’m not complaining! Just observing.

I thought that maybe I’d somehow just become a card-carrying member of this club once I turned 35. That it was just something that happened to you, like a positive and more practical version of Cinderella’s carriage turning into a pumpkin after midnight. Maybe, without any conscious effort on my part, I’d start dressing exclusively in Madewell, stop buying $20 Victoria’s Secret body sprays, and be able to maintain a French manicure for more than two days before chipping it on a pickle jar I was trying to open in a munchie-induced haze. But it’s become clear as the years have passed that I apparently didn’t inherit this cool/chill/chic gene, and I think it’s about time I give up the ghost and graciously accept my fate.

While these fleeting sources of superficial fascination and envy come and go through my brain space fairly often, one example remains as constant evidence of the seemingly permanent gap between myself and my potential: Lady Gaga.

Stefani Germanotta, more well-known to the world as Lady Gaga, is exactly two months older than me, to the day. And there have been more than a handful of times that I’ve become absolutely convinced she exists solely to remind me of how much more she’s accomplished than I have. And perhaps secondarily, to cause dozens of strangers, including an AutoZone employee and numerous passersby, to tell me I looked like her when she first hit the scene in 2009.

Yes, there are plenty of other celebrities that are also my age, but doppelgänger or not, I’ve always felt an inexplicable kinship with Gaga beyond just liking some of her songs and admiring her tenacity and talent. And last year as I was watching TV, a Nurtec ODT commercial suddenly revealed something else unexpected, tangible, and strangely comforting that we have in common: migraine headaches.

I’ve dealt with migraines since I was around 15 or 16. I distinctly remember getting them often on Friday nights after a busy week at school, and lying on the couch in the dark family room, full of FOMO and pain, watching 20/20 on ABC with my parents through half-closed eyes. The vast majority of them last exactly 24 hours, and it’s a roll of the dice as to whether medication will actually help, so sometimes the only thing to do is force myself to sleep and pray that it’s gone by morning.

If you’re a fellow sufferer, you might also relate to the woe-is-me mental anguish that often comes along with an attack, akin to when you’re sick with a cold or the flu and feel down in the dumps and despondent like Cameron in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; like things will never be the same, when you rationally know otherwise.

“I wonder if Gaga has a migraine today,” I’ll wonder idly when I’m feeling good as can be, while doing the dishes or walking to grab a coffee and croissant. And when I’m rendered immobile, upset, and nauseated by a headache — which, to the uninitiated, can best be described as feeling like someone is repeatedly stabbing an ice pick into your temple and twisting it — I now take a weird sort of solace in the fact that Mother Monster, Miss Poker Face herself, knows my struggle, my specific pain, and perhaps even my silly-looking “migraine cap” that doesn’t really work, but which I bought in a fit of desperation via Amazon Prime. As a plus, I am not a world-famous entertainer who’d be required to perform for thousands of screaming, expectant fans when all I want to do is hide in a room with the blinds drawn for the rest of the day.

For me, learning that I shared a chronic ailment with one of the biggest pop stars in the world felt comparable to finding out that the Wizard of Oz was just some insecure dude from Omaha who had some great PR. One of us! One of us! And while Gaga faced the typical “sellout” backlash for partnering with big pharma, it was just the reminder I personally needed that not a single person on this earth of my age or any age has it all “together” — even if a Grammy award, impeccably-decorated master bedroom, or ultra-curated Instagram feed suggests otherwise.

At least until this morning, when I found out that Emma Stone is two years younger than I am.