PUBLISHED MONTHLY
EST. May 2000 (AD)

 
 

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Interview with Jennifer Aniston

By Molly Schoemann

When I arrive at the restaurant, Miss Aniston is already seated by the window, looking at home at a 'table for one'. As she smiles and rises to greet me, I unobtrusively scan her clothes for errant cat hairs. Though I find none, it is safe to assume that this single actress will eventually acquire at least six or seven cats to keep her company.

Aniston, who never took the name of her ex-husband Brad Pitt during their four-year-long marriage-a fact which may partly explain why it did not last, is dressed casually in a t-shirt and khakis, wearing little makeup. She looks as though she would be more comfortable wearing sweatpants and sitting in front of the television, which is likely something she does regularly, since she is single and lives alone. We chat pleasantly and order our drinks.

"Just water with a slice of lemon, please," says Jennifer, who appears to be wisely watching her weight in the hope of ensnaring a male companion in her declining years.

As she peruses the menu, the late-thirties actress looks relieved to be saved from another evening spent heating up a Lean Cuisine as she waits for the phone to ring.

"The sandwiches all look pretty good," she says, needily.

I joke that it's probably smart for her to have low standards at this point in her life, but I don't think she gets it. I have often heard it said that when you live alone, your sense of humor is the first thing to go.

As I raise the important and still fascinating subject of her famously failed marriage to legendary actor and extreme hunk Brad Pitt, who has clearly moved on to better things while she has not, Jennifer gives me a crone-like look of disapproval.

"Can we talk about my new movie?" she asks. "I thought that was why we scheduled this interview." She adds, "If you don't mind, I'd rather not discuss my personal life."

Or lack thereof, Jennifer? Or lack thereof?

"I've enjoyed being more or less out of the public eye these last few years," Aniston adds, smiling in that desperate, approval-hungry manner that the world found so charming only a few short years ago, before she became unable to successfully hold onto even pudgy, b-list boyfriends.

She continues, although she's not fooling anyone. "It's been very refreshing keeping a low profile and not having to worry about being scrutinized by the public every moment. I'm not tied down in any way and I am free to enjoy living the life I choose."

I consider asking, "But what kind of a life is that, Jennifer? You used to be married to Brad Pitt, for God's sake! Why haven't you killed yourself yet?" But I stay quiet. I do have to admire this older woman's courage and grace as she struggles to get by without a steady man in her life. She's trying so hard to show that she's happy, that I don't have the heart to challenge her obvious lies. The poor, brave thing. Honestly, I don't know if I could survive if I found myself in Miss Aniston's sad predicament.

Thus, out of pity, I grudgingly agree to discuss whatever petty project Jennifer has most recently counted on to fill the twilight hours of her fading career. It's clear she doesn't realize she's on the brink of telling America she's "ready for her close-up."

The unlucky-in-love actress begins to discuss how she found her latest movie role. I begin to lose focus, drifting in and out while she drones on about how she "reached a staggering epiphany" while filming "one of the toughest scenes" of her career. I nearly nod off as she recounts her "electrifying realization that the meaning of life actually boils down to one simple phrase" which she learned from a bodhisattva she encountered while filming in Tibet. (It can only be assumed that the two were not romantically involved, as no paparazzi photos have yet surfaced of them canoodling in Hawai'i or lunching together in Los Angeles.) The depressing sight of the bare ring finger on Jennifer's left hand makes it difficult to concentrate on whatever it is she is going on and on about. Seriously. No wonder Brad decided he'd had enough.

Finally, our meal comes to a merciful end. I virtually snatch the bill out of the waiter's hand in my haste to be away from Aniston's mindless chatter. Now she's going on about "the media's desire to define me by my relationships with men." Sweet Jesus, someone shut this woman up. No wonder she can't find a man. This reporter doesn't have the foggiest clue what she's talking about. And if I don't interview her again, it'll be too soon. Call me when her neighbors report that they haven't seen her in weeks and that there's a strange smell coming from her house, and they find her half-eaten by her own cats. That's the only other time I'll be willing to do a story on this unfortunate woman.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Molly Schoemann grew up in New York City and moved to Boston by way of Honolulu (possibly she took a wrong turn somewhere). She most recently moved to Garner, NC. What can I say? She likes moving. Molly began writing humor and satire during her freshman year at Bard College. Visit Molly at: www.mollyschoemann.wordpress.com.