I'm having a rotten morning where everything is going wrong. I'm inexplicably angry at everything and everyone, I probably bruised myself when I walked into the corner of a wall, my clothes looked like hell, it's hot as blue blazes, my new deodorant stinks, I got glittery eye shadow all over my face so I now look like a 13-year-old, and I caught my nice work bag in the door on my way into the office.But all of that is okay now. Because I must confess something.
I am in love.
I have developed a terrible girl-crush on Anne Hathaway. My affection for her surpasses my adoration of Natalie Portman. I want to BE Anne Hathaway. Anne Hathaway is gorgeous. Anne Hathaway is radiant. Anne Hathaway is classy and graceful. Anne Hathaway is smart. Anne Hathaway kicks ass. Anne Hathaway is pale and has absolutely zero issues with it, and refuses to try to change it. Anne Hathaway can actually act (a rare trait in Hollywood starlets today). Anne Hathaway takes gutsy roles (see her play the wife of a barely-closeted gay cowboy in Brokeback Mountain) but isn't afraid of fluff work (*cough*Ella Enchanted*cough*, though I guess it was good for its target demo and even Colin Firth bows to the tweener audience sometimes) and will tolerate a boring and predictable ending in pursuit of an overall fun movie (The Devil Wears Prada). Anne Hathaway is naturally thin but still actually likes to eat (see story, albeit poorly written and a desperate topic to begin with, here). Anne Hathaway can be cut to the bone and only asks for Tylenol (see story here).
And best of all, Anne Hathaway is so cool that she uses this as a description of what it's like to kiss Steve Carrell on set of Get Smart:
"Making out with him is like the yummiest lollipop, dipped in sunshine and wrapped in a masculine wrapper! That's the only way I can think to describe it."
Anne Hathaway, I think I love you. Husband, try not to be jealous.
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