When I found out Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin were going their separate ways I experienced an initial wave of nausea, expelled a single tear, and poured out a bottle of Dom for the relationships of yore. Now, full disclosure: I never cared for Chris Martin. Don't get me wrong, he seems like a
perfectly nice guy, and I'm sure he's a terrific dad, but he wasn't right for Gwyneth and never was. Sure,
he kind of complimented her with his granola-rocker vibe because it gelled
with her health-goddess vibe, but that was about it in my book. And he's
in Coldplay so that is just like minus so many points.
That being said, I was naturally thinking a lot about dear Gwynny-P, but then I saw this:
and things took a turn for the worst.
If you have ever talked/hung out/worked/drank/smoked/made out/dieted/spent two weeks in an ashram in Thailand/shopped/hiked/played badminton/had a threesome with Mads Mikkelsen and Chelsea Handler/been friends with me, then you know that I love GOOP almost as much as I love myself. I admit, however, that it is difficult to differentiate my love between GOOP and Gwyneth. My love for Gwyneth is aspirational: I want to be her because
I know I never will be (god that was hard to say). I comfort myself with the fact that I'm actually Charlize Theron with just a hint of Oscar Wilde. Right? Crazy, I know, but so true.
But GOOP, man,...I mean...it's
GOOP.
It's the most perfect mix of beauty, wonder, and batshit crazy that I have ever seen. It is the only place where I could find a much needed $495.00 malachite box to hold my demons, or read about olive oil without feeling fat, or discover the perfect organic sushi restaurant to go to the next time I'm in Marrakech.
It nourishes me.
If GOOP goes out of business I may literally die.
Make sure Gwyneth is at my funeral.
Love,
Patty
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