From best-selling chick-lit novelist Wendy Holden, an exclusive short story for BettyConfidential.
I don’t know about you, but I’m mildly interested in celebrities. OK, I admit it, I’m crazy about them. Obsessed. I’m the one before the TV at midnight gawping at Homestyles of the Rich and Famous instead of getting my eight hours’ beauty sleep. I’m the one you can’t see on the subway because, even though my legs and body are there, my head’s hidden behind a bright pink magazine cover with a huge picture of Brangelina on it.
At least, it was. That was the old me. But, last winter, I realized I couldn’t go on like this. The first clue was when my boyfriend laid down his fork on the kitchen counter, looked me in the eye and said, in answer to my question, that, no, he had no idea if Simon Cowell has the back of his hands waxed. He added that he didn’t care either and, as it was obvious we both had different interests we should both go our different ways.
The second clue was when, a few days later, I was trawling the internet for the latest gossip about the Jolie-Pitts. I’d just dragged up yet another pic of Angelina doing her red-carpet vampire pout thing next to Brad in one of his hat and scarf combos when I realised I was not alone. My boss had sneaked up behind me and was staring at my screen.
“Them!” my boss exclaimed. “They’ve got about a million kids, and she never looks as if she eats anything. He never looks like he sleeps. They probably fight the whole time.” Then, as I turned to face him and take this fascinating point a little further, he snarled “And speaking of fights, I’ve given you three written warnings about this. You’re fired.”
So I’d lost boyfriend and job in the same week, and all because I couldn’t get out of bed without my fix of star gossip and celebrity tittle-tattle. Basically, I’d become a celeb-dependant; my obsession with the lives of the famous was ruining my own. I’d wasted my chances of romance and promotion.
I had to go cold turkey on the stars.
What I needed was a sort of celeb rehab; a place I could go where there would be no gossip magazines, no television, no websites; basically nothing to encourage the wasting of time and energy wondering about Madonna’s ropy arms or whether off-the-shoulder really suited Michelle O.