My friend Sarah turns He’s Just Not That Into You into a drinking game and hits upon this fantastic insight into what it means to be American:
There was this one great scene, though, when Jennifer Aniston had to walk a dog down the aisle in a coral satin bridesmaid dress, smirking and hurting, head held high. Man but America sure does like Jennifer Aniston to do our hurting for us, don’t we? Nick said she’s like our Princess Di, which makes sense to me, because America seems to love her best when she’s all fragile and dumped and blonde and brave facing it on a beach somewhere. There was a time about a year ago when we were still in dark days as a nation, no hope or end in sight, when I remember thinking that maybe the one thing that could cure America’s pain was for Jennifer Aniston to give birth to a fat blonde baby. Maaaan wouldn’t that have been some ointment for our national wounds! But God forbid she display any sarcasm; I read some article recently where she namechecked some of Brad and Angelina’s litter when one reporter too many asked her about them, and then you could feel America be like okay whoa whoa WHOA, Aniston, don’t be a freaky stalker who knows Shiloh’s name. Even though everyone else knows Shiloh’s name. In your place, missy. Which is apparently walking a dog down the aisle while crying on the inside. That’s where we like you.
I’m sure it has everything to do with the amount of tabloid television that I watch, but I probably care way too much about Jennifer Aniston and her well being than is healthy. Someone today asked offhandedly if she was dating anyone, not really expecting a reply, and I was all, JOHN MAYER. SHE’S DATING JOHN MAYER. HE WROTE HER A SONG FOR HER BIRTHDAY. And I would have quoted a line from the song he wrote her, except that would have been creepy, and I draw the line at knowing that she likes tilapia and walks around in her sleep. OK. STOPPING NOW.