Oh, help me God, Jamie Lee Curtis is baring it all in a pair of baggy gym knickers and a saggy sports bra for the reassurance of More magazineÕs fortysomething readers. By showing that she has more behind her than a successful film career Š namely Ōback fatÕ, a pair of wobbly thighs and a spare tire, Ms Curtis wants to explode the myth that sheÕs Ōwalking around in little spaghetti strap dressesÕ. Yes girls, even with a twelve-step programme, a starring role in Pierce BrosnanÕs The Taylor of Panama and a walk in wardrobe full of Manolo Blahniks, Jamie, bless, is just like you. After years chipping away at the coalface of cosmetic surgery (after which she became addicted to pain killers), liposuction, and anti-wrinkle injections, which, says Jamie, Ōyou know whatÕ donÕt work, now she looks just Ōthe way God intends me to lookÓ.
Ah, you know what Jamie Š Botox off back to Hollywood, do us all a favour and put your clothes on. If it wasnÕt bad enough to watch you stripping off when you had the perfect aerobicised body, itÕs even worse having to see you with the kit off now that youÕre waving the 43 year old, white flab of defeat. If you think youÕre being brave by showing us what you look like up close and personal, you neednÕt have been so heroic Š really - give most of us a mirror and we can already see that picture looking right back at us. Being Fat and forty is not news to anybody but yourself. Do you think the sisterhood of couch potatoes really wants to look at your cellulite? We have enough of our own thank you. At 44, without the benefit of Botox, body sculpting or the scalpel, I can see your cellulite and double it and if this is how Jesus loves me, then frankly, heÕs worshiping at a shrine with a very small congregation consisting of only my husband.
IÕm a much against body fascism as the next voluptuous woman, and I certainly donÕt think salvation lies in a shot of Botox, a tummy tuck or a bottom lift. Since I canÕt afford any of these, theyÕre not an option, but I can dream, canÕt I? Short of waking up one morning, magically rejuvenated, many of us normal mortals like to wallow in the fantasy that we could stop looking like members of the Julie Burchill appreciation society and transform ourselves into pouting sex-goddesses if only we had the money and the time to devote to it Š maybe not via the knife or the suction pump, but with the personal fitness instructors and dieticians, the calorie counted meals delivered to our door, the round the clock beauticians, hairdressers and regular visits to the spa of our choice. Surely only a 3-picture deal with Miramax stands between us and the body of my dreams?
I mean, what else are movie stars for if not to look good? If theyÕre going to make a hugely luxurious living pretending to be someone else, then that someone else should at least look gorgeous. ItÕs not as if Jamie Lee Curtis has to pick up the kids from school after a hard day on the movie set, drive through rush hour traffic, make supper, wash up, do laundry, clean the house, and then get up at 7am to do it all again Š so whatÕs the big deal about having her picture taken without a manicure or a professional hair do. Or, shock horror, diamonds. Living on the edge, girl. SheÕll be telling us next that she cuts her own toenails.
ItÕs just not good enough. Why be rich and famous if you canÕt have your hair done and buy some decent underwear? When I hand over £7.50 for two hours escapism at the local cinema I donÕt want to watch someone as tired and dimpled as myself snogging the hero. I donÕt want to imagine her lounging at home in a pair of size 14, up to your armpits black cotton knickers, suspiciously similar to the ones from Marks & Spencer I am wearing myself. Call this glamour?
Look Jamie, if you want to see life in the raw, with the unkempt hair, no make-up and big pants, you can come round my house, otherwise, get yourself a pair of marabou mules and a corset and start acting like a film star.