I Turned Down Muppets for Magazines. Did I Screw Up?

Reflections on a fuzzy path not taken.

I could have been a Muppet.

Back in the ’90s, when I was just embarking on my post-college life, I auditioned for Jane Henson, wife of the late, great Jim Henson.

The Jim Henson Company was accepting applicants for a Muppeteer workshop taught by Jane, a creative force in her own right. Future Fozzie Bears and Miss Piggys had to audition for acceptance into an intensive training camp.

I was 23 years old with no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’d spent the past year temping, waitering, driving a school bus, washing dishes— anything I could to cobble together NYC rent.

As a lifelong Muppet Show fan, I thought being a Muppeteer sounded like a dream job. Why not put my hand up? And into a puppet?

The audition took place at the Muppet Workshop, a white townhouse on East 67th Street in Manhattan. It was cluttered with shelves of Muppet body parts.

Aside from being a training ground for performers, this was also where Muppets were conceived and created. Long workbenches were lined with felt, fleece, fur, foam, rubber, and glue. I remember seeing the “Mahna Mahna” chorus girls perched lifelessly on stands.

There were about 15 of us trying out, mostly actors and stand-up comedians. I was neither. Jane handed each of us two ping pong balls strung together with a rubber band. We slipped the band over our hands so the balls sat atop our fingers like eyes. Then we recited the alphabet, using our hands as mouths.

“A-B-C…”

Eventually, we moved on to full words, starting with “dog” and “cat,” then progressing to phrases like “suddenly serious.”

Jane was teaching us the surprisingly complex hand language of the Muppet.

The next day, I went back to a temp job answering phones at Child magazine. My right hand had taken on a separate identity. I called him Sid. Between calls, I practiced saying the alphabet under my desk with my ping pong balls.

As I was leaving for lunch, an editor called me into her office. I assumed she’d seen me playing with my balls under my desk and had some concerns.

“Close the door,” she said. “We really like the job you’re doing. We want to bring you on full-time as an editorial assistant.”

The salary was $25,000 a year. Health and dental insurance. A matching 401 (k). I could take a day to think it over.

Child was owned by the New York Times. I’d be writing book, movie, and TV reviews—a completely unqualified 23-year-old childless guy telling parents what media they should consume.

On most days, this would be fantastic news. But I had Muppets on my mind.

The job came with a cubicle, a paycheck, and a future. The Muppets came with absolute uncertainty.

That night, I returned to Henson headquarters for the final leg of my audition. Jane told us we’d graduated from ping pong balls to real Muppets. She led us to a closet where hundreds of fuzzy creatures hung on the walls, waiting for their human companions.

I chose a woolly monster with thick eyebrows and fat lips.

After more practice, it was time for the final challenge: a two-minute improvised monologue to camera. Muppeteers used hidden monitors to watch themselves as they performed, which meant you weren’t looking at the audience—you were staring down at a tiny screen while trying to bring a puppet to life.

I don’t do voices well. My Muppet sounded like a cross between Grover and a French chef.

I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember making Jane Henson laugh.

The next morning, I avoided the editor who’d offered me the job. I kept checking my voicemail for news from the Jim Henson Company.

Finally, I got the call: “Congratulations. Jane has accepted you into the Muppet boot camp.”

It would meet five days a week for six weeks. No salary. No benefits. No guaranteed job at the end.

That was my choice: an uncertain, unpaid opportunity of a lifetime—or a stable job with a paycheck, benefits, and a New York Times office.

I chose the career. Not the experience.

I went on to have an incredible run as a writer and editor, but now, in my 50s, I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I’d followed Joseph Campbell’s popular advice at the time to “follow your bliss.”

It would’ve been incredibly hard, no question—but what doors might’ve opened? Did I do the right thing taking the “safe” path that turned out not to be safe at all? A career in magazines hasn’t exactly aged well. As far as I know, there are still Muppets.

Muppets outlasted magazines!

All this brings to mind a piece of conventional wisdom we were told when we were younger: That if you chose a responsible path, stuck with it, worked hard, and paid your dues, you'd be rewarded. Choosing a career over experience was the smart move.

That bit of Gen X wisdom seems incredibly dated.

As we enter our midlife pivots, maybe the question isn’t whether we made the wrong choice back then, but whether security still needs to be the end goal this time around.