While watching the Golden Globes the other night, I noticed that a lot more people than usual were sporting a carrot tinge to their skin. I guessed that either (a) jaundice is in vogue this year on the red carpet or (b) someone on Rodeo Drive is offering one helluva clearance on spray tans.
Regardless, seeing so many fake tans triggered a sudden craving for Creamsicle ice cream, which really pissed me off since I’m still trying to lose my stuffing-and-plum-pudding weight. The bottom line: In my opinion, the most au naturel celebs (oxymoron?) looked most beautiful.
During the Hollywood awards season, I do enjoy watching the parade of absolute perfection on the red carpet…perfectly styled coifs; perfectly made up faces; perfectly enhanced cleavage; perfectly Spanxed waistlines, hips and asses; perfect celeb-trainer-shaped legs; perfect spa manis and pedis; perfectly fitted designer gowns. No creases, no bulges, no split seams. What’s it like having to be so perfect? How does it feel to be examined under a microscope and judged by millions every time you go out your front door?
My guess is that it’s positively exhausting.
Every year, by the time the Academy Awards are over, I really am happy to be boring old me. I’ll take my plump ass and my roly poly abs and my bloodless
(as-a-dead-fish-because-I-live-in-Canada-where-I-can’t-remember-what-sunshine-looks-like-anymore) skin and my (tossed-up-in-a-lopsided-ponytail-every-day-because-I-can’t-be-bothered-to-go-and-get-it-cut) hair, and my nice comfy sweats that disguise the fact that I haven’t bothered to shave my legs in the past month. And especially my anonymity. Give me my paparazzi-free life any day.
Yes I know that they’ve got more money than I could ever fathom. But I’ve got normal. And you know what? That’s a fair enough trade-off for me.
While I’m on the subject of celebs and the alien world they live in, here’s a short story you might enjoy.
When David Letterman announces her name, the audience goes ballistic for their beloved golden girl. Applause erupts with the force of a volcano as she ducks out from behind the curtain, strolling gracefully across the stage toward him.
Her lustrous hair has been carelessly (carefully) gathered into a ponytail by her personal hairstylist and her expertly made up face is fresh and youthful.
A slip of gossamer champagne fabric hugs the toned curves of her body, shimmering under the hot studio lights so that she appears nude, almost ethereal. The delighted gasp of the male portion of the audience is audible while the females among them excrete a fusion of longing and loathing as their eyes track the subtle sway of her hips.
She transports a designer-clad toddler in the crook of one arm while maneuvering a towheaded preschooler, who stumbles along while peering down at the floor. The roar of applause persists as she settles into the guest chair, plunking the toddler onto one crossed knee while directing the elder child to climb up onto the chair beside her. She beams at the audience, sweeping them with her lilac blue eyes, then directs a dimpled smile at Dave.
“Nanny out on the town tonight?” Dave quips and the applause morphs into laughter.
“No nannies for me, Dave,” she purrs. “I insist on taking care of my precious babies all on my own, thank you very much.”
She punctuates her statement by warmly embracing her toddler, who squirms and whimpers. The audience laughs and applauds. Her knee begins to bounce as she tries to distract the fussing toddler. The preschooler continues to stare at the floor, sucking quietly on three fingers.
The very beautiful very bankable major motion picture star turns to Dave, bending forward slightly so that one can’t help but notice the luscious, surgically perfected globes not quite hidden behind the chubby toddler. She proceeds to dish openly about her quite average but exhausting daily routine: getting the kids up and dressed every morning, preparing their meals, ferrying them to play dates, all while having to get to the set on time…you know, just the normal working mommy stuff. As a matter of fact, just this morning, she and her very handsome, also very bankable motion picture star husband discussed their desire to begin work on baby number three as soon as they have both wrapped up their latest films.
The audience roars their approval and she smiles at them, draping her arms around both of her children. The toddler stiffens and his quiet mewling swells into a shriek. In a soothing tone, she shushes him while nuzzling his neck with her perfect nose. The assistant director signals a commercial break and Dave angles his body toward camera number two.
“We’ll be right back with the delightful _____ right after this message.”
The instant the camera pans away, a stout woman with a furrowed unibrow darts from behind the curtain and scrambles across the stage toward the children. Dave takes a generous sip of scotch from his mug while appreciating a perfect side view of his distracted guest’s left breast as her dress strap slips down on her shoulder. The grimacing star holds a now kicking and screaming toddler out and away from her.
“Hurry the hell up, Consuela,” she snarls from behind a tight grin. “And get this little prick off of me before he destroys my Versace!”
The preschooler shimmies from his chair and dashes to the clucking woman, throwing his arms around her legs. His mother’s stunning violet eyes shoot icicles in his direction, then glare up at the nanny. “And what in Christ’s name have you been doing with Jonathan? He just sits there like a mute. Make an appointment for him next week with my therapist.”
She turns away from the retreating nanny and children with an air of dismissal, smooths her dress over her thighs, re-crosses a ten-million-dollar leg, and leans in toward Dave.
“Effing kids,” she snorts. “Thank God I’m flying back to Rome tonight.”
The busy assistant director signals the countdown. Dave clears his throat, sets his mug down and grins.
Three, two, one…“And we’re back with everyone’s favourite movie star mom!