I like celebrities. I like reading about them. I like writing about them. I mean, hell, I even write an entire column devoted to them. But, you guys, there’s a line I don’t like to cross. You see, I like to sit down and chat with celebrities when they want to sit down and chat with me. I like to take red carpet pictures when they want to walk the red carpet and have their pictures taken (with the exception of when Rainn Wilson walked a red carpet with his hands over his head. NOT COOL, Dwight Shrute.) I like to discuss celebrity fashion hits and misses when they know they are dressing up for the public. Are you noticing the theme here???
It’s on THEIR TERMS.
I don’t believe that celebrities should be photographed taking their garbage out. Or taking their children to school. Or coming out of their dentist’s office. Yes, one can argue that celebrities are “public domain” and learning to dodge the paparazzi is the price that they pay for their fame and fortune.
There is a line.
And you know where that line is crossed?
Stars’ Cellulite SHOCKERS! Those little ripples of flesh aren’t uncommon. But you won’t believe who in Hollywood has them – including some young starlets.
Star Magazine. March 14, 2011.
EIGHT PAGES devoted to this shocking discovery. Surprise! People are not perfect.
Eight pages of phrases like lumpy legs and saddlebags and cottage-cheese thighs and jiggle, jiggle and couch-potato flab.
Eight pages of pictures of Halle Berry and Tori Spelling and Heidi Montag and Eva Longoria and Lady Gaga and Katy Perry and Kate Moss.
And LeAnn Rimes.
I don’t know if any of you are familiar with what LeAnn Rimes looks like right now.
And you want to know why she probably looks like this right now?
Because she opens up magazines and sees things like PHOTOS OF HER BLOODY CELLULITE. Because she reads articles that say things like “Oh, those dreaded dimples!” and that it “MIGHT BE TIME TO CUT BACK” on the peanut butter pretzel nuggets that she splurges on.
I am a woman. I have days where I hate the scale, hate the mirror, hate all of my clothing. I have days when I feel uncomfortable in my skin. I have moments that I wish I was thinner, more muscular, more fit. And there are days when I splurge on thing that are way worse than peanut butter pretzel nuggets.
But there’s no one hiding behind bushes taking hi-res photos of me as I walk down the street. There’s no one opening them up on a giant screen. There’s no one circling and highlighting my dimpled skin.
There’s no one publishing these photos in a magazine for all the world to see.
And for this I will continue to thank my lucky stars.
And worry for the actual stars.