Believe me when I tell you that this was not the intention of April 6th and 7th. Â I had planned to do a little cleaning, some cooking, a lot of reading, easing back into a normal workout routine.
And yes, I did all of those things. Â But most of these activities ended up being Gwyneth-endorsed or created in some way, and that was just…ugh.
Before I dive into my weekend (which honestly was lovely), here is my beef with Gwyneth (and we can throw Anne Hathaway in here too, and Beyonce to some extent):
I crave authenticity.  Genuine surprise, accidentally said explicatives, tripping over steps as you’re about to accept an Academy award (obviously, LOVE Jennifer Lawrence).  And while I fully understand why a celebrity is guarded and careful about the image they project, I can’t help but feel something very plastic about how Gwyneth portrays herself – the out-of-touch GOOP ($400 for a wood bracelet? I have a DIY of this coming your way), her self-proclaimed ass of a 22-year old stripper (Tracy Anderson, I’ll get to you later).  Her cookbooks – I hate that I love them.  Most of the time, I pretend they’re written 100% by her partner Julia Turshen.
It’s refreshing when I’m not alone in this opinion.  My great friend Felicia feels the same way.  She also, coincidentally, had the same inexplicable urge to cook out from her new cookbook, It’s All Good.
Which is exactly what we did on Saturday.  We spent an hour or so puttering around her kitchen, prepping our own dishes while discussing how to zhush them up. We prepared Momo’s special turkey bacon, crumbled on a kale salad dressed with apple cider vinegar and Maldron sea salt.  I tackled Goopy’s risotto with greens, using the entire leek and adding some vibrant Spanish paprika for a extra zest.  As I focused on the savory, Felicia zoned in on the sweet – the chocolate cake with buttercream, which definitely did not taste gluten/dairy/sugar-free.  It instead tasted like the best damn thing you’ve ever had.  (I would know – I inhaled a generous slice that was probably 1/6 of the entire cake).  (You can find all the recipes here, and you should definitely make all of them).
“Damn you Gwyneth,” we muttered, stuffing our faces with the delicious and healthful food. Â My husband, oblivious to our glaring dislike for Ms. Paltrow, inhaled the meal with gusto.
Sunday rolled around and my husband and I started the day with our usual traditions – reading the paper over large mugs of tea, watching Meet The Press, discussing our lofty life goals. Â My husband, far more disciplined and dedicated than I, ventured off to the gym.
I was about to curl back into bed with the Arts section when I noticed my bookshelves looking disorderly, triggering a full-scale OCD attack. Â As my husband ran and lifted weights, I ended up rearranging our entire personal library around the apartment – on our two bookshelves, atop accent tables, and lined up on the windowsill (which was, incidentally, a genius move as it covers the seedier parts of our skyline view).
While the actual book reorganization had nothing to do with GP, it did lead me to unearth my two-year old Tracy Anderson DVDs and 3 lb free weights. Â And rather than following my usual impulse to bury them back to their original location, I instead popped the DVD into the player, changed into some workout clothes, and did the first Metamorphosis Abcentric workout (much to my husband’s amusement, as he returned just as I started a torturous leg lift routine).
“Man, that looks tough. Â I could not do that – not flexible enough” he remarks, sipping a smoothie.
“AHRKSGJKSJDGKJSKDJGKFDJKFS!” I shouted back.
Despite my true feelings for Gwyneth, I can’t deny that she looks incredible.  And, shamefully, I’m now re-addicted to the Tracy Anderson Method – the muscular structure work (only 30 minutes, though it feels like hours during leg lifts and pulses) is more enjoyable than any strength routine I’ve ever done, and the cardio is dancing (seriously, what’s more fun than that?).
As I showered and threw on my most comfortable pieces (an ancient Forever 21 sweatshirt and my most comfortable jeans), I couldn’t help but be ashamed at how Gwyneth influenced my weekend. Â And how much I actually liked it.
There could be worse things than eating incredibly delicious and healthy food. Â And having the ass of a 22-year old stripper.
But a $400 wooden bracelet?  That, I still won’t do.  A girl has to have some boundries.
image: 1 / 2, 3, 4, 5
