Rebel Rising: A Memoir - Hardcover

Wilson, Rebel

 
9781668007204: Rebel Rising: A Memoir
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 1668007207 ISBN 13: 9781668007204
Verlag: Simon & Schuster, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

From the scene-stealing star of Pitch Perfect and Bridesmaids comes a “lively and reflective celebrity memoir seasoned with comedy and sincerity” (Kirkus Reviews) about Rebel Wilson’s unconventional journey to Hollywood success and loving herself.

This “beautiful, brave book,” (Jenna Bush Hager, Today) is the story of Rebel Wilson’s remarkable personal transformation, from a painfully shy child in Australia who literally had to be dragged to drama classes to achieving breakout success in the US through iconic roles in Pitch Perfect, Bridesmaids, and Isn’t It Romantic.

Through “stunningly personal revelations” (The New York Times), Rebel shares the extraordinary experiences that shaped her life. A malaria-induced hallucination? An all-style martial arts fighting tournament? Junior handling at dog shows? And this was all BEFORE she moved to Hollywood!

From her painful relationship with her father, weight gain and loss, a late-in-life sexual awakening, and fertility issues, Rebel shares her incredible journey to self-love in writing that is “frank and fun” (CBS Sunday Morning). Rebel leads you through her hard-fought path to “making it,” constantly questioning, “Am I good enough? Will I ever find love? Will I ever change and become healthy?”

This extraordinarily entertaining memoir shows us how to love ourselves while making us laugh uncontrollably.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rebel Wilson is an Australian actress, director, comedian, writer, singer, and producer. She’s known for her roles in the Pitch Perfect series, Bridesmaids, How to be Single, Senior Year, The Hustle, Jojo Rabbit, and more.

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TWO
The Fertility Doctor
 
So here I am, waiting to see a well-respected fertility doctor. On the outside my life is a fucking Lizzo song—“It’s bad bitch o’clock, yeah, it’s thick thirty!” On the inside, well, who cares what’s happening on the inside. Emotions, ewwwwwww. I save them for the “very sad, handwritten book” that is my diary (which you’ll be hearing excerpts from soon enough! Stay tuned!). But I am starting to feel this biological clock tick inside me. I can’t ignore it. I am rapidly approaching the big 4-0, and it’s like I am the bloody crocodile in Peter Pan. Tick, tick, tick. (Oh, and yes, just to let you know, reader, I will be referencing ten billion movies in this book . . . so maybe as a drinking game, take a sip every time you read one . . . or eat a chip, I don’t know . . . I’m just imagining you on a sexy beach right now reading this with a margarita, or bag of chips, in hand.)
I’d never quite thought about my ovaries—apart from when I was twenty-one and was diagnosed with PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). The doctor just put me on birth control pills and neither of us ever spoke about it again. Like my uncle’s craziness at Christmas, “better NOT to talk about it.”
But now it was like my little cyst-y ovaries were yearning. “Rebel!!! Don’t you wanna have kids? It’s the smart thing to do.” Shit. I am smart. That one got my attention.
Sometimes it was like my ovaries were yelling at me, muffled of course by my FUPA, but I could still hear them: “Hello! Can you hear us down here? We’re your ovaries. Activate us!”
My Year of Love, this little experiment I was doing for my fortieth year, was feeling like a failure, so I didn’t have a partner. But now I did really want to become a mother. Every time I’d see a baby my heart would feel warm—like the gooey inside of a chocolate molten lava cake. “Awwwwww,” I’d think to myself, “how cute.” I’d look at mothers breezily sipping coffees in cafés with their beautiful babies: Oh, look, there’s a mum now pushing her newborn down the street in a stroller whilst taking a business call—she looks good. Has she had a blowout? Like she’s not a vapid shell of a human being who trudges around like the “house-elf” in a twelve-year-old stained nightgown . . . what is this? She’s conducting important business AND has a baby. Wow. And then look over there, some cute kids at the park playing. I power-walk by them alone . . . in leggings, followed by a pap, naturally. Can I go into the park? No, better not. That park is for KIDS and PARENTS. That’s a club I’m not a part of despite my VIP status. I have created so many things in my life artistically, created a career and a name for myself, but having a baby . . . well, this is the ultimate—this is creating LIFE.
Ummmmm . . . where is this fertility doctor? I’ve almost finished my free bottle of water and am about to move on to the free candies in the bowl by the window. I am paying an extra $5,000 for this VIP experience, so I may as well.
What am I going to be like when I’m “old Rebel”—like when I’m in my eighties or nineties (hopefully still acting up a storm like Betty White)? If I don’t have a family, will I be even lonelier than I am now? Not that I’m sad or anything, I’m crushing life, as I’ve mentioned. I post a fun picture of myself on Instagram and get two thousand likes instantly. There, that’s not lonely.
I think I am becoming slightly less selfish at thirty-nine years old. Before, the thought of putting someone else first seemed alien to me; now it isn’t so much.
Yes, it’s true, reader, the entertainment industry breeds egomaniacs—and you have to be some level of egocentric to survive. Because in my business YOU are your product. I am my face, my tortured hair, my overweight physique, my brain, my personality. You have to care about YOU. It’s YOU that has to perform. So my life, my journey, has been primarily about me.
But meeting the Tennis Player in my Year of Love (and yes, we’ll get to that story too . . . sorry, I know I’m a tease) taught me that I could put someone else’s needs ahead of my own. I was ready to give up on my own career to follow them around the world. Because of love. It shocked me that I could put someone else first. I was changing—I was different. I have so much love to give. I am READY. Ready to have a baby.
Bang! The special nurse suddenly opens the door and takes the clipboard with my forms. “Ready?” she says.
“Ready,” I think.
I get ushered down a corridor and into the fertility doctor’s office. Oooooh, it’s got a nice view of Beverly Hills below. From up here the people down below look like little Chanel-wearing ants.
On the desk, there are some plastic models of female reproductive organs. There are framed certificates of qualifications on the walls. Photos of babies that he helped conceive, I think. This guy is the real deal. I mean he’s kept me waiting for almost thirty minutes and I’m a celebrity VIP.
And then the doctor walks in—he’s about sixty, with wiry white hair and wearing a white lab coat. He gives me a “Doc from Back to the Future” vibe. I guess he is on the cutting edge of technology. IVF and egg freezing isn’t new, but the technology has rapidly advanced in the past few years. Lots of people are doing it. Lots of people have used this guy.
“So. Why are you here?” he asks dryly as he sits down at his desk opposite me. I pause.
Well, I’m not going to tell him everything, am I? That, in like a 30 percent effort way, I attempted to get pregnant in the past year. That I was going on quite a few dates and occasionally sleeping with guys unprotected in the event that maybe magic might happen. Do I say that?
Okay, before I continue, it wasn’t like I was one of those crazy women who approach forty and then try to bonk any random dude to get their jizz and have a baby. I wasn’t tricking anyone. I guess I just wasn’t scared of being “trapped” anymore. I was open to getting pregnant. It just hadn’t happened. I see that the doctor is getting annoyed as I’m mulling all these things in my head. He must think I’m an idiot—most people who see me in movies do. He’s a super-busy guy. He has plastic models of female reproductive parts to point to.
“Um,” I finally say. “My friend used you to freeze her eggs . . . and I think I want to do that . . . too. As well.”
I am not exactly communicating well, though. I feel nervous. Like this might be a bad idea—because maybe if I was meant to get pregnant, God would have let it happen naturally with one of those guys. I did think I was pregnant once when I was very casually dating this guy I nicknamed “the Criminal” and my period was late. One of the Pitch Perfect girls ordered a pregnancy test from a delivery app whilst we were doing press at a hotel . . . I peed on it during a break but it was negative. Not meant to be.
I’m a single woman. I don’t have a partner. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this?
“I just wanted to ask you some questions about it.”
“How old are you?” he says, again dryly. He’s clearly NOT a Pitch Perfect fan. You can tell when you’re talking to someone and they KNOW who you are. This guy doesn’t give a shit. He sees actresses in here all the time. He’s probably looked up...

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Verlag
Simon & Schuster
Erscheinungsdatum
2024
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1668007207
ISBN 13 
9781668007204
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
336
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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