Is it possible to overstate the crush I had on Farrah Fawcett when I was ten? No. It is not.
If I could pluck that little boy from the late seventies and plop him into the seat across from me now, I would not tell him Farah had just died after a long and valiant struggle against cancer, because I wouldn't have the heart. I couldn't bear to see his eyes just then, the crushed look on his face.
I also would not tell him his beautiful Farrah would, in later decades, go on to prove herself both a gifted actress and an inspiration to many. This news would simply bore him.
Instead, I would tell Little Me that, in 1995 or so, Farrah will generously pose for a feature in Playboy Magazine.
For a moment, I'd take in the grin on that little boy's face. Then I'd send him right back where he came from.