Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Jennifer Aniston Examines Her Naked Body

Jennifer Aniston stood in front of the full-length mirror in her white marble bathroom that had a commanding view of Lake Michigan through the 44th floor window of her Chicago condominium. The building was mostly glass, or appeared that way, and was along Lake Shore Drive. There were a few small sailboats on the lake and a freight-container ship on the horizon. It was morning, not 7:00 AM yet, and the light made the Lake water almost aqua. Upon entering the bathroom, one immediately noticed the Lake view through the large window. But if one entered at this moment, they would also notice the naked Jennifer Aniston standing at a mirror examining her body.

Jennifer was alone. The mirror was along the west wall of the white marble room that contained two under-mounted oval sinks with chrome fixtures. The white toilet was along the east wall. The full length mirror which was occupying Angelina's attention was nestled between sink counter and the wall that faced the Lake.

Jennifer did not like this view of herself. Indeed, naked views were always the most revealing. Jennifer looked good in clothes, even in street nothings she looked good, with her hair and that smile. But the mirror reflecting her naked body screamed plain. Plain. Just plain. Nothing special. Nothing spectacular. Two arms, two breasts, a waist, hips and legs. Not like Brad Pitt's new woman, Angelina Jolie.

Jennifer kept flashing Angelina Jolie's image in her mind. Angelina was a woman, a full-bodied gorgeous creature who was graced by god with perfection, a kind of beauty that pulled attention to it without effort. It had apparently pulled Jennifer's husband away as well.

But here in front of Jennifer was the image of Jennifer’s body that pulled no attention. Jennifer Aniston could almost understand Brad's plight. He had no control. Brad was married to the epitome of plain, a woman with a body that was assembled on an assembly line with union labor with no attention to detail, a Chevrolet or Ford, the garden variety type; but Brad Pitt did not see himself inside a Chevy or a Ford. He wanted to be inside a Bugatti or a Maybach. Jennifer the Chevy. Angelina the Bugatti. What man wouldn't have made the decision that Brad made.

Jennifer Aniston looked back at her body in the mirror and thought of a New York Times critic who called her acting 'one note.' So there you go. Her body is plain, her acting is one note; she had even somehow found herself in what she considered a small apartment in the middle of America, which this morning seemed ordinary. Of course, Jennifer knew that this was a special place, an expensive apartment with an outstanding view, a residence that almost anyone but Saudi royalty would consider special.

Jennifer knew this, on some level. But one has to go with their feelings, and at this moment, at this early morning moment with the morning light hitting the clean Lake water of Michigan, the tiny water ripples reflecting ever-changing sparkles, the air conditioning blowing cool air with a hum out of the ceiling vent, the white marble under her freshly showered feet, Jennifer Aniston was feeling, deeply feeling nowhere, almost like all the money and all the attention was compensation for a big lie. Jennifer was nothing special, deserving of nothing more than the paychecks of the team of union workers who assembled her Chevy body.

And then it hit her. She looked up and saw her body, glanced out at the Lake, took a deep breath of the cool conditioned air, grabbed her round breasts and thought that she was lucky. Afterall, what plain girl has as much as her. She was where she was because despite the Chevy beginnings she was living a Bugatti life.

Luck. It was luck, and it felt good. There is a god. Well, maybe there's a god, she hoped. But there was certainly a lucky girl standing in front of that mirror. Jennifer was going to get dressed and make herself a pot of coffee. A new day. She winked. At herself. Jennifer Aniston decided she preferred Chevys. Chevys were American. Jennifer was American. And she was in Chicago. You can't get any more American than that.

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