(…although I’m probably the only one.)

I was thinking today about how a dose of my favorite celebrity gossip blogs can either depress me (eg finding out that two months of rent for Lindsay Lohan would cover my mortgage AND rent for a year, with enough left over for a decent down payment on a car), or else put things into perspective and make me realize my life isn’t so bad. Consider the following:

• I have not fallen into a cactus, fallen while exiting a club, and been spotted walking down the street with white powder billowing from my shoes–all within the space of a few days.

  OK, I’ll stop picking on Lindsay. It’s so easy that I feel bad. And really, she’s in worse shape than Britney Spears was a few years ago, because at least Britney’s father was ultimately willing and able to step in and help, and her parents quit hating each other enough to cooperate. Lindsay’s father just holds press conferences about how messed up she is, and then her horse-faced enabler mother spouts off about how Lindsay is fine, she’s a genius, she’s misunderstood, she’s healthy, blah blah. She’ll still be saying, “Lindsay was fine!” when they’re carrying the coffin to the graveyard, which at this rate will be soon.
  

• I did not have a one-night stand with some guy who then plastered the story and photos all over the Internet. Also, my parents had the sense not to name me Peaches.
• I have no delusions that plastic surgery would improve my life in any way. At age 23, I was a graduate student, not a “starlet” so desperate for attention that I would subject myself to 10 simultaneous surgeries–including a procedure of which I would publicly say, “I don’t know what it is”–and have my breasts inflated so large that I could no longer hug people.
• I have not sold my soul to Xenu.
• My name is not simultaneous with “sexual napalm” in any universe, let alone public forums. And I’m pretty sure my dad would chew off his own tongue before he talked about my breasts to GQ or anyone else. In fact, if I was in a career that in any way demanded or promoted the prominent exhibiting of my breasts, my dad would tell me, in utter disgust, to find another career and then stalk away, subject closed, end of discussion.
   
• I am not the spawn of Kate and Jon Gosselin.
• I am not in seclusion against the barrage of rumors about my cheating, neo-Nazi husband. (That one doesn’t feel fair, either, except I’ve gotta go with the people who wonder how Sandra Bullock missed the Nazi love if it’s as prevalent as the evidence seems to indicate.)

I could go on and on. But the point is, yes, I’d sleep better at night (well, whenever I do manage to sleep) if I had a tad more money. I wish I could travel, and I would like to have a car so I could take off to the beach or a museum or the mountains for a day. And health insurance would be nice.

But I forget that life isn’t magically better with money, fame, youth, relationships, and/or beauty. And while I genuinely feel bad for some of the people I’ve referred to above, when I think about the reality of my life vs. the reality of theirs, mine begins to seem okay. At least I’m surrounded by people who love me, not people (including family) who are trying to exploit me.

So thanks, y’all. Group hug. Cough. Enough cheese for now.