I know I vowed not to obsess anymore about Hugh Hefner and his marriage to what’s-her-name. (Think I could change “what’s-her-name” to “fill in the blank”? Maybe “whatever”? Yeah, “whatever”. Her name will never matter like his will.)
I’m not speaking out of jealousy because I’m old(er) and have ms. Really. It doesn’t bother me that she’s got a great bod. I don’t care that she’ll have a mansion to live in. Or that she’ll have access to lots and lots of money. Okay, that one bothers me.
That this qualifies as news, that people actually care. Geez, thank God for the pretty people and their invisible disabilities: Cher and her dyslexia; Catherine Zeta-Jones’ bipolar illness. Without those gorgeous faces no one would pay attention. Sound bites! Sound bites! Bitty pieces of info that are about as satisfying as a glass of water. Then we thank that same God we don’t have dyslexia or bipolar illness, although it’s probably not a big deal to Cher or Catherine Z because look, they’re gorgeous and famous and their clothes are great! Not to mention they’ve got access to money. Lots and lots of money.
Real people aren’t good ambassadors for disability; we’re too, well, real.
Even with make-up.