It came to me at the end of an aisle in Barnes & Noble: Someone has to save Christie Brinkley.
I’ve never actually met Christie Brinkley but I feel a kinship with the woman because she and I are the same age. There. I’ve said it. I’m old. But then, so is she. The problem is that on her old looks…different. She’s all blond and gorgeous and perky, and I am noticeably less so.
The comparison used to bother me, and when I say “used to,” I mean up until five minutes ago. All of my adult life, no matter how much primping and priming I did, Christie Brinkley was always one sparkling smile ahead. Just when I would think she had faded into deserved obscurity – bam – there she’d be on a new magazine cover saying, “Ha, ha! Still gorgeous!”
It didn’t help that, at one point, Christie Brinkley was married to Billy Joel, that soulful piano man I’ve seen in concert three times. It would have been four but the first concert, years before his big break, was canceled due to puny ticket sales. I was there during Billy Joel’s lean years, but who did he marry? Christie Brinkley. He did a whole album about her that went to the top of the charts. Christie Brinkley was his big break. And then, she left him. Can you see why I worry about the girl?
My Christie Brinkley backlash is sour grapes, bunches and bunches of it, and in this new year I was once again trying to be a kinder, gentler soul, but then I saw Christie on TV promoting her new book, a hardback wonder chock full of tips on how to be fabulous when you’re old like we are, and all of my angst came flooding right back.
To buy the book would mean I’d have her grinning at me 24/7, but I couldn’t resist taking a few peeks in the bookstore. I saw healthy recipes concocted by her close personal professional chef friend, workout tips from her close personal professional trainers, and every page contained a new picture of Christie Brinkley (27 costume changes) being close and personal and fabulous. There’s not enough resolution in the world to counteract that.
My dark side hoped there was extensive airbrushing involved. My even darker side hoped that, like Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray, the Brinkley attic contained a self-portrait that had deep forehead furrows and cottage cheese thighs.
But then, something changed. Maybe it was the little girl pout she had when highlighting her cheekbones or maybe it was her meditation pose on a sunny California beach, but whatever it was, my heart went out to the woman. I flipped back to the fabulous food section. Not one recipe for chocolate cake. I flipped further. Yes, she looked fabulous on every page, but her waistbands (all 27 of them) seemed particularly unforgiving, not a skosh more room in the bunch. Poor dear, was she ever able to take a deep breath?
And that’s when I knew I had to save her. I’m not sure how just yet. I may start by sending her a pair of sweatpants, something she could wear in the privacy of her own home. I thought about sending her a cookie gift basket but I think that would be too much too soon. I’ll start with a few granola bars just to coax her out into the open and move up from there.
Save Christie Brinkley, my 2016 cause. I think I’ll print up T-shirts, all with a skosh more room.
