I’m sitting perfectly still on the couch, arms braced, unwilling to move my pupils more than two millimetres either way. Not since the day after the night of the 17 tequila shots have I been so certain that any sudden move would shatter the universe around me into a million pieces.
I half expect the four horseman of the apocalypse to be standing on my balcony, quietly wheezing breath redolent of new-testament hay, horse-nostrils anxiously steaming up the glass.
I’m wondering if I’ve done one too many Bikram classes and have slid into a Gwyneth Paltrow life of Sliding Doors. (the fact that there is a box of Favourites chocolates in my hand rather than a cucumber, basil and lime juice would suggest not, but nothing is certain in this shaky new universe)
Nothing about the world makes any sense anymore.
For something EVEN MORE INCOMPREHSIBLE than my bestie giving up champagne, me growing a maternal gene or a Kardashian stepping out of the limelight has occurred.
George Clooney has been dumped.
Someone voluntarily kicked this one to the curb.
I’ve burned up the google machine looking for an explanation on what Stacy Keibler was thinking in sending George back to the dating pool to the point where my laptop is in ashes on the lounge room floor.
I even asked Siri.
“why did she dump George Clooney?”
Even Siri can’t get her head around it and needs to have a little lie down.
I’m unwilling to accept the ho-hum old chestnuts around the difficulty of long distance relationships and the likely disconnect presented by George’s avowed bachelor and child-free status.
Given none of my electronic devices are prepared to elaborate on her rationale for ditching THIS
I’ve done my own research and come up with the following
She hates the man cave
Lord knows this can be a dealbreaker. I’ve observed through friends how their partners can retreat to whatever form their man-cave takes and progressively disconnect from the relationship.
Sure, George’s man cave takes the form of a villa on Lake Como with 25 rooms, is worth about 40m, with a pool, lake views and a very effective anti-stalker system (trust me, I know this having driven past there whilst on holiday in the region. Maybe 25 times. Whatever.)
And yes, it’s a LONG way removed from a 3m x 3m stainless steel shed with the fridge that’s no longer good enough for the kitchen and a view of the clothesline.
But that doesn’t mean she’s happy about him hanging out there with his buddies, knocking the top off a cold one and rabbiting on about the footy.
There’s that awkwardness about his bestie
Speaking of buddies, the long-term bromance between Brad Pitt and George Clooney has been well documented. Two individuals, so genetically blessed, that when they hang out the embarrassment of physical talent sucks the universe dry such that every other male looks like a cast member of the Big Bang Theory by comparison. A pairing that has lasted longer than George’s last three relationships combined.
Stace had the misfortune of putting this quote out there early on, and no doubt has suffered a touch of the awkwards / the daggers of Angelina since day one. That stuff can just get really, really old.
She’s having that mid 30s ‘is this all there is’, meh phase
Been there, done that, have the half-started naturopathy degree, meditation mat and self-help book collection to prove it. The mid 30s are tough. Look closely at Ms Keibler’s life and you see it playing out in her career journey. From kickin lady wrestler
……to a reality TV show that touts itself as “featuring aspiring food entrepreneurs pitching their food-product inventions to a panel of industry experts, with the ultimate victor receiving a nationwide launch in a major grocery-store chain”
Chick is trying to find herself.
Pesky political incompatibility
Nothing can kill a vibe like being on the opposite ends of a political spectrum. George practically has Darfur as a middle name, has been awarded a peace award from the Nobel Peace prize laureates in Rome, is a UN messenger of peace and is an open supporter of Barak Obama.
Stacy has been ALMOST as prolific in expressing her political views, tweeting this during the 2012 Presidential election:
I #voted. Have you?
Poor George. Presumably he’s dealing with this the same way that many of us have, downing a glass of something alcoholic while brushing up his online dating profile, in a desperate attempt to boost his self esteem and search for someone to spend his next (based on the Clooney law of averages) two years with.
If there’s any fairness in my now-wonky universe, I’ll be able to let go of my vice-grip on the couch and see a wink in my email from Taurus52, sometime resident of Laglio Italy.
More likely that the horsemen will crash through the door and run off with my box of Favourites.