You know that clichéd question “If you could have dinner with someone alive or dead, who would it be?” I recently got to live that out with one of my heroes. Envious? Don’t be. I’ll tell you off the top, it was an uncomfortable experience that left me feeling like a big old dumb-dumb head.

The hero in question is a respected and adored Canadian broadcast legend. (I’m going to refrain from naming who she is, because I don’t want to be in bad standing with her by blogging about our dinner on the Internet. So you if need someone to imagine, how about picture Paula Deen’s glowing face, since she’s been in the news lately, and is a legend in her own right.)

When it was announced years ago that my hero was retiring, I cried, or at least clenched my heart, because the thought of not listening to her on a regular basis was heartbreaking. On-air, her presence was warm, thoughtful, astoundingly smart and personable. I wanted to be related to her. She made me listen, think and feel. I miss hearing the warmth of her voice.

Last week, my dad told me he was having dinner with a few broadcasting veterans he used to work with, including said hero, and asked if I wanted to join. I (obviously) said yes.

I had met my hero briefly at a Christmas party back in December. I’ve heard way too many stories of people having terrible experiences upon meeting their idols (the Bea Arthur/Rufus Wainwright one is pretty sweet) – this was not one of them.

Upon introduction, my hero was personable and sweet and later in the evening when she caught me staring at her wide-eyed from across a small group, she gently touched my shoulder and included me into the circle’s conversation. When my friends asked me what she was like, I described her as a Queen Angel. And I wasn’t exaggerating.

On the night of the dinner, I arrived at the restaurant early and nervously checked my iPhone as I waited. I didn’t want to be sitting there, upright with my hands folded, looking like I’d been eagerly waiting there, staring at the door, for too long.

When all the broadcasting vets and my dad finally arrived, the Queen Angel took a seat across from me. The moment had finally arrived! I was having dinner with one of the women I most admire!

Quickly the group of oldies launched into talk about what they’d been doing. Most of the table was retired, so there was a lot of travel stories and documentary recommendations.

I sat, listened and smiled widely. I didn’t exactly fit in.

Soon talk turned to the pros and cons of windmill power, the Plains of Abraham, The Ogaden War of 1977 and the bristling works of Christopher Hitchens.

I sat, listened and smiled widely – because was nothing else I could do. There was nothing I could contribute to any of these topics because I knew nothing about them.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years as a journalist is that if you don’t know something, admit it. You’ll only look stupider if you pretend you do. But at this dinner, there was no way I was going to divulge how little I knew about the following (broad) subjects: history, literature, geography and science. I’d prefer to come across as a wide-eyed mute than show how ignorant I am in front of someone who I admired so much.

After the meal, my dad drove the Queen Angel home. She asked about what I’ve been up to, if I’d found a place to live since moving back to Toronto. I spent the next five minutes, babbling nervously non-stop about everything that’s been going on: My challenges hustling and networking, how I want to be based in two places, preferably Toronto and Vancouver, and how I’m currently really single. She sat, listened and smiled, until we dropped her off at her front door.

“Hold your cards close to your chest and reveal them slowly,” my dad said as we pulled away from my hero’s driveway. “You give too much away about yourself.”

He was right. But I wondered if, while in the presence of my most admired hero, it would have been better to stay mum on the boring details of my personal life or admit the fact that I’m completely unfamiliar with a lot of common knowledge.

I’m still not sure I know the answer.