I wish I had Gwyneth Paltrow‘s problems. I wish I had her money. I wish I had her wardrobe. I wish I had her legs.
I wish I could make huffy remarks like: “When you go to Paris and your concierge sends you to some restaurant because they get a kickback, it’s like, ‘No. Where should I really be? Where is the great bar with organic wine?”…oh yeah, and you have to say it with a straight face. And, furthermore, Paltrow complains about poor concierge recommendations, like “Where do I get a bikini wax in Paris?” You just hear her fury loud and clear. My god, this is a woman with her finger on the pulse. She is touching on some serious issues that today’s woman really struggle with–being in a foreign country and having no one to tend to your solid gold snatch.
What’s embarrassing, is that she doesn’t already have a regular waxer in Paris. Frederico has been doing me for years, and I always check in when I go there never.
Standing in line at the grocery store, looking seriously rough after a long day of work at the salsa kitchen. This is one of those moments where you’d bump into a dreamy ex-boyfriend or passive aggressive acquaintance while wearing a musty Cowichan sweater and salsa splattered yoga pants.
They’d squint their eyes at my tired, naked, possibly puffy face. “Is that…salsa…on your neck?”
“Nope, that is blood…because I am a surgeon…a very important one…and I just saved someone’s life in the parking lot as a matter of fact”.
“I’m pretty sure that’s salsa”.
“He was a salsa…vendor. So it could be possible”.
Luckily, the only person I bumped into was Gwyneth Paltrow on the latest cover of “Star” Magazine, and the haters have their claws out for ole Goop Founder G. Paltrow.
The queue was taking a thin slice of eternity to move, so I helped myself to a quick skim for the details. To sum up, everyone thinks she’s a dick, but secretly wishes that they could be her. I mean I’m sure Angelina, Madonna, Reese and the two Jennifer’s are content with their own deal, but every else outside of that tax bracket would be up for a piece of that action. But let’s be honest, she’s fabulous, has had some of the hottest boyfriends ever (hello? Brad Pitt?), and knows a lot of fabulous, important people.
If you are at the office or just have a bit of time to kill, Google “Gwyneth Paltrow, irritating quotes”, and whole hours will pass, you’ll be having so much fun. Her bourgeois, cultured, spoiled observations will have you in stitches. Afterwards, when the cackle subsides, you’ll feel kind of sad. When she says “I am who I am. I can’t pretend to be somebody who makes $25,000 a year”. You can think, “yeah, it’s no summer at the Hamptons“. I think you’d much rather pretend to be Paltrow than pretend to be me. That’s okay, I don’t blame you, you’d get more bang for your buck with P-Fab, you’d be married to a rockstar and be besties with Beyonce.
But seriously, how much fun would it be to have so much wealth and success that you were completely out of touch with the rest of the world? You could send your children Alabaster and Emerald to private school in custom Chinchilla stoles and little tuxedos made out of real penguin. You could blog on your lifestyle website: “Now, when I fly my children to the moon, I have Mario Batali freeze-dry some organic kale jerky, and we laugh about it with Oprah!”
In cookbooks you could suggest ‘just a pinch of ground up gold dust’, recommend the nicest resorts to recover from plastic surgery–“They do the liposuction right on site, and you just roll off the hospital bed onto this lounge chair”. No wait, that’s right, that’s not surgery, she’s just discovered the serum that actually causes her to not only age like Benjamin Button, but to simply regenerate, and thusly live forever. And she’s sharing it with Madonna…so that’s another brag worthy tidbit you’ll have to look forward to.
I don’t hate the Paltrow, she is who is she is, a product of her own good fortune. She was born into a wealthy family, and moved seamlessly into the film industry. She’s also had an excellent PR team behind her. Jokes aside, she’s a smart, fabulous woman and she is winning at the game of life; whereas I am trundling somewhere near the starting line. And so, stuck at the end of a slow-moving train of customers– tired, grumpy, hungry, I laugh aloud about her “where’s the cool bars/organic wine” comment, and put the magazine back on the rack. Paltrow’s appeal is easy to loathe, but for those of us that are in the ‘have not’ category, she is a window to peek through. This is what its like to be fabulous. There’s not much to do at the end of the line but flip through a tabloid, roll eyes and crack wise, because a chuckle is the only luxury you can afford.