Oh, Gwynnie

There’s an article on Slate.com about how hating Gwyneth Paltrow is hitting an all-time high. For the record, I don’t hate her. I think she’s a fairly decent actress. I’d say in the beginning she was over-praised for her English accent, but I haven’t heard her Eliza Dolittle it up since she married the genuine article, so maybe she’s improved. I will say her funniest movie (and my favorite of her oeuvre by far) is Sliding Doors. When she gets hit by the bus – I. Laugh. Every. Time.

So maybe I hate her a smidge. Nope. Hate’s a strong word. I . . . oh, let’s just go with hate. A smidge.

Why? Is it the marshmallow head on the toothpick body? Is it the Breck girl hair? The oh, that’s my husband, the rockstar, marriage? Is it that she burps and gets an Oscar for it? It’s kind of all that. Combined with the fact that she seems to have little to no awareness of her fortunate one status. It’s like she just accepts it all as her due.

It’s just statistical. Luck runs on a wide bell curve. There are going to be sad-sack motherf***ers out there who never seem to get a break. And there are going to be people who fall in horse crap and come out smelling like Chanel No. 5. The 99.8% rest of us just muddle around in the middle. But if you are one of the Fortunate Ones, the truly, truly lucky, it really does behoove you to at least have the grace to act like you’re deeply grateful, abashed, or even just a little surprised that you have it easier than 99.9% of the population (BTW – Taylor Swift? Master of the art.).

And that’s why every time Gwyneth Paltrow shows up at a red carpet wearing yet another dress that makes her look distinctly saggy-boobed, I smile just a little bit.