Jennifer Aniston makes me a bad feminist, and if that wasn’t awful enough, a nosey parker too.
She’s got a new boyfriend, and I hate myself, but I’m utterly delighted for her. She is somehow the exception to every rule and belief I hold.
Of course no woman needs a partner to complete her, of course you can enjoy a content, fulfilled life being single, but Jennifer Aniston must live happily ever after with a man who is worthy of her, the end. I’m ashamed, but I can’t help it – I need her to find lasting love.
The misogynistic Poor Jen narrative she’s been saddled with for two decades since her marriage to Brad Pitt ended in 2005, is offensive, boring and reductive. It’s also patently inaccurate: she’s a hugely successful, rich, beautiful woman, often seen surrounded by a big group of devoted friends. Blessed Jen would be a much more fitting nickname. And yet, the tragic, unlucky in love portrayal has stuck, regardless.
Much of it has to do with the fact that she’s our Friend, she was in our living rooms every week for over 10 years, we grew up with her. She feels uniquely accessible and relatable – one of us – even though she is none of those things really. We also bought into the fairytale of her being with Brad Pitt, but with hindsight, that was nonsense too.
At the time he was the most lusted after movie star on the planet, and it was roundly decreed that Jen was punching, because she was a girl-next-door type rather than a knock ‘em dead raving beauty bombshell. I don’t know where you live, but no-one next door to me looks anything like Jennifer Aniston.
Still, the general consensus was that she had done well to land him, and wasn’t he great to have picked her when he could have had anybody? Then he left her. And 10 seconds later he was in a relationship with knock ’em dead raving beauty bombshell Angelina Jolie, his co-star, with whom he was in the midst of a publicity campaign for the film Mr and Mrs Smith.
Brangelina, as they were quickly christened, were everywhere, inescapably. Pictures, interviews, and an infamous spread in W magazine where they posed as a 1960s All American couple with five children. Everyone who had ever had their heart broken – so everyone, then? – felt Jen’s pain, as this was clearly a kick in the teeth on top of your worst nightmare. Maybe we trauma bonded with her, too deeply in some cases (hi). Whatever. I became fully invested in this storyline, and I’m confident I am not alone here.
Jen managed to keep her next significant partnership, with actor Justin Theroux, quiet, shocking everyone with the announcement of their marriage in 2011. Her well-wishers breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived – not as breaths go, but in the death do us part stakes. Six years later, they’d split. It’s impossible to portmanteau Jennifer and Justin, so perhaps the odds were always stacked against them.
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The hearty diet of rom-coms I was fed at an impressionable age could be to blame for my backwards thinking when it comes to Jen, including the will-they-won’t-they Ross and Rachel saga, which ended tied up in a neat bow. But the joy I experience when she has a new bloke on her arm, and appears to be happy, is as genuine as it is slightly creepy.
Jennifer recently told Closer magazine how it feels to have complete strangers gossiping about your relationships:
“No matter how long I have been in the industry, I will never get used to people thinking they have any sort of right to know about your personal life,” she said.
Here she brings out the contradiction in terms in me again – yes, couldn’t agree more, how dare the public feel entitled to those kinds of private details just because your occupation makes you a celebrity?
But also, I want to hear absolutely everything about her new man, “transformational coach” and hypnotherapist Jim Curtis. They’ve been seen together around town, and she brought him on a group holiday to Mallorca with her mates.
That’s a big step isn’t it? That seems serious? Touching wood now, obviously, with all fingers crossed, and my cheeks burning with shame.
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