I don’t suppose I can get away with claiming that my ending up alongside the red carpet at a movie premiere was an accident.

But if you’ve got a life, it seems such a weird thing to do, setting out to gawk at people you know only from their pretend ones.

I’m still a little embarrassed to admit that I was even there, much less up close and personal.

So I’d like to give credit where credit is due – I blame Oprah.

If I’d been able to get through on her phone line to reserve “Oprah Show” tickets, I’d have gone to Chicago instead, like I’d intended. But after a day and a half of dialing without ever breaking through the busy signal, I finally decided to heck with this  – where else could I go?

A few minutes online at a travel website later, and I booked a great deal on dirt cheap last minute airfare and hotel in New York City.

Planned as a girlfriend’s getaway, we jumped at the chance to explore the Big Apple, immediately lining up tickets to a Broadway show and mapping out a tour of art galleries, shops and museums. You know, classy, culture-type stuff.

But okay, I’ll admit it, I also thought it might be fun when I found out there was a movie premiere only blocks away from our hotel. I just took it for granted that it’d be a many yards away “Who is that? I can’t tell, I think it’s…” experience, a goof captured in a grainy photo or two, good for a name-dropping for bragging rights laugh later.

The night of the premiere started out ordinary enough. The day had been overcast, on and off drizzly, perfect for subway hopping and tripping through art galleries.

By early evening, intermittent showers appeared. Breaking out the umbrellas, we headed off to the theater an hour or so before the advertised start time.

Never having been to a premiere, it was a bit of a surprise to see only a dozen or so people waiting when we arrived.

A canvas tent was pitched underneath the theater marquee, with a side awning leading to the street. We could see photographers and security people pacing around inside the roped off entrance.

Outside, a small line of gawkers like ourselves was just beginning to form. It was a friendly crowd, especially so the chatty gal standing next to me, who soon caught the eye and ear of a young man stationed inside the tent.

It wasn’t until later that I realized the significance of the “All Access” pass hanging around his neck.

I don’t know if it was a reaction to our new friend’s big blue eyes and flirtations, or the fact that the turnout was smaller than they’d expected, but he suddenly motioned to her – and an entire line of us – unhitching the rope to let us stream inside of the tent.

We filed in alongside a velvet rope that led all the way into the theater entrance, next to a stretch of carpet. A red carpet.

I didn’t think this was any big deal, until a very pregnant movie studio rep appeared, who insisted on wedging a woman in right next to me, claiming, “She needs to stand here for interviews – she’s a reporter.”

It seemed just a tad suspicious that she didn’t have a notepad,tape recorder or microphone, – but who was I to question her apparent photographic memory?

A few minutes later, a couple of reporters with video cameras strolled to the center of the carpet in front of me, and asked, “Did you win a contest to stand here?”

I looked more closely at how things were laid out inside the tent.

At the entrance, a carpet led from the street into an open area with a backdrop, facing rows upon rows of photographers.

Farther into the tent, the carpet led to two small, separate stages and podiums labeled “ET” and “Access Hollywood”. Leading to the carpeting in front of us, a straight length perhaps a dozen yards long, our side filled with gawkers, directly opposite rows of cameramen and reporters standing ready with microphones and notepads.

As it finally dawned on me that we might be in for more than we bargained for, a sudden buzz of excitement and popping of flashbulbs signaled the arrival of the first movie star of the night.

After posing for photographers, and pausing for a chat with the hosts at the entertainment show podiums, he made a lazy turn and strolled right to me.

Thanks to the friendly gal who’d not only gotten us into the tent to begin with, but who also proceeded to loudly call out the name of each new arrival, I spent the next hour as the first stop on the receiving line for the stars of the movie.

While this may have been a dream come true for the regulars on the celebrity fan circuit, I was not only stunned, but seriously unprepared.

As the people around me started pulling out fancy bound autograph books and glossy posters, it suddenly dawned on me that it was the expected thing to do – and how rude would it be not to ask?

So although I’ve always thought autographs are worthless unless on a check, there I was scrambling to find any scraps of paper worth scribbling on. I hastily dug through my purse, finding a small notepad of paper from a hotel I’d stayed at on a previous visit to New York.

I immediately cringed at the thought it seemed like a not so subtle invitation, “Hey baby, this is where I’ll be at if you’re interested.” Particularly since it was at the wrong hotel – I mean, what if they called? It could happen.

As for the autographs – right off the bat, I started writing legible versions of the names beside the chicken scratches, because I sure wasn’t going to be able to read what they’d scribbled later in their haste to get through the crowd.

So much for the re-sale value on Ebay I guess.

Even though over a dozen familiar celebrities passed by me that night, I would never claim to have “met” any of them – it would  be like saying you met monkeys at the zoo. And when you go to the zoo, you don’t expect the monkeys to talk back – I was there to gawk, not interact. Under the circumstances, what was there to say? I hadn’t seen the movie they were there to premiere, I’m not much of a gushing “I love you!” person even to those I do know – I got nothing.

As for the movie? It was the U.S. premiere of “Love Actually”, a film packed with well-known British actors, including heart-throbs Hugh Grant and Colin Firth. The people right next to me spent the night proudly proclaiming that they were the “Colin Firth fan club”, loudly hooting, hollering and generally making a scene when he showed up.

Not to bludgeon with name-dropping, but Emma Thompson was quite friendly and chatty when stuck waiting to conduct a camera interview directly in front of us, and seemed delighted to tell us, “You’ve made Colin’s night!”, when his appearance triggered a bigger buzz than did his “Bridget Jones” co-star.

The last arrival on the red carpet was the famously charming Mr. Grant.

A fact I’m embarrassed to admit so flustered me, that as he walked toward me, I flashed him. And not in a good way, but with my camera – right in his face.

Immediately after, I thought, how rude am I? I wouldn’t pop that flash in the face of anyone I knew – unless it was a sibling I was trying to torture – how weird must it be to have to put up with that for a living?

Blinded though he may have been, he didn’t flinch or skip a beat, politely asking for my pen, then signing a whole row of autographs before returning it to me.

It turned out to be a perfectly simple interaction, and a little anti-climactic after my initial idiocy of star-struck shock.

To be honest, what made the greatest impression on me was the observation that he needed to lighten up a little on the hair gel.

At evening’s end, I came away thinking how ordinary everyone was. Up close and personal, they really weren’t all that.

Frankly, I knew lots of people back home who were just as or more attractive.

And what was wrong with this picture that for some reason these not so special people raked in millions of dollars each year rather than me?

The week after I returned home, I picked up every fan magazine I could get hold of and searched the internet to find pictures from the premiere.

I told myself I wanted to compare my memory of how people looked and dressed in person compared to the photographs, but I was most interested to see if I’d made it into any pics myself.

Why waste my time worshipping celebrities when I can go around worrying about what people think about me?

I did find a couple photos, recognizable to me mostly because I knew what to look for, even if I was hidden behind other people or my own camera.

So much for my brush with fame. At least I had the good sense to brush my hair – hear that Mr. “expensively disheveled” Grant? Oh well, there’s always next time – sorry I missed your call.