We all smirk knowingly when a celebrity goes off to a facility because of “exhaustion.”
“Exhaustion,” we’ve come to understand, is code. It’s a euphemism for “overindulgence.”
Overindulgence, we think, is part and parcel for the famous, for those who lack self control.
Self control, of course, isn’t anything the famous are familiar with. They are paid to put on a show,
a show in which they are beautiful beyond compare, thin without effort, and this requires assistance.
Assistants: they assist, cater, take care, do the things that would otherwise fall to the celebrity.
The celebrity cannot be seen with her delicates in a Kroger’s bag outside the dry cleaner’s.
Dry cleaning is terrifying. Eating is impossible. The world presses in, the mind is a terrible thing.
Things become complicated. The assistants can’t tell her why. They’re paid to fetch, not answer.
Answers can arrive in the form of pay-as-you-go spirituality, 30-dollar red strings for protection,
protection from evil eyes, magazines predicting her downfall, all available at the grocery store,
the grocery store she doesn’t go to because no one must know what she actually consumes.
Consumed by fear when the roite bindele fails to provide, her next best option is the bottle.
The bottle answers nothing, really, but deadens the fear. But only for a little while.
For a little while, it helps. It helps, but requires increasing amounts to continue being helpful.
Helpful assistants are now tasked with procuring bottles along with the delicates. No questions.
Questions only irritate, disrupt the precise chemistry that must happen in order to function.
Functions, openings, fundraisers – she must appear, as ever, flawless. And it’s exhausting.
thomdunn
bpmcgackin
The Writer
lisamccolgan
nantonio
gempari
ptmcniff
