Gwyneth Paltrow’s un-selfconsciousness

Darling girl of the flatironed hair and the clothes-hanger frame, I’ve defended you. I’ve often quite liked you as a person and an actress. I, for one, wasn’t happy to see your head gifted to Morgan Freeman in Seven. I think you are talented, chic, in tune. You even look good in a jumpsuit.

However.

No longer are you the Apple of my eye, a sartorial Moses leading us to the promised land where we vacation with Valentino, cook with Batali, and rock out with Beyoncé. What you are is delusional. You don’t have delusions of grandeur; rather, you—of the famous parents, even more famous godfather, and Spence pedigree—think you’re just like us plebs.

If only.

It started with goop, your unctuous, ooky website and e-newsletter that offers up your picks for a fabulous soup-to-nuts lifestyle. It continued with your self-congratulatory cookbook My Father’s Daughter. “We've got a wood-burning pizza oven in the garden—a luxury, I know, but it's one of the best investments I've ever made.” Fuck you and your macrobiotic, organic, Michael Pollan-approved diet. Now, you’ve launched goop city, an app of twee drawings and footage of you Julie McCoying it—in stilettos, no less—all over Manhattan.

Groucho Marx reputedly said, “I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.” Well, Gwynnie, you already assume you’re a card-carrying member of Average Joe middle America. And I think you and I both know that a woman who sleeps with a rock star in her bed and an Oscar on the mantle is not exactly a mere mortal. Go back to Mount Olympus and leave us be with our Cheez Whiz.