For a while now, I’ve been investigating* a theory that Uma Thurman exists in her own benevolent pocket dimension that is everywhere at once, accessible to anyone who may benefit from her presence. If a magazine publishes a story about a popular-yet-down-to-earth-and-reasonably-priced spa in New York, a defining characteristic will be that Uma gets her pedicures there. My hair stylist in Hoboken has a framed magazine cover of Uma on his wall, the explanation being, at least among women who go there, that he did her hair during the many years he worked in New York. J. Crew’s American Apparel-ripoff store Madewell had a “secret,” temporary location several floors above me for a few weeks in March that was “invitation only”– and who was the one celebrity noted to have been browsing? It’s like she’s a mythical being, goddess of credibility, who lays her large, graceful hand of fate upon those purveyors of humble style who wish hard enough.
So somehow, it took me a full four minutes to be surprised when she breezed into a book party I was at last night, not a star-studded affair by any means unless aging literary agents are your idea of celebrity (to be fair, there were probably writers there that any over-educated New York douchebag would have recognized in an instant, but I am merely an over-educated metro-area lazypants). The only people I knew there were the author and his wife, whom Uma warmly hugged and chatted with as if she’d grown up next door (which she might have). She was wearing a kind of awkward, not particularly fancy boho skirt/black blazer combo, with no perceivable makeup, hair in a bun, but completely gorgeous. She had another lady with her who had a similar my-father-is-a-Buddhist-scholar vibe. I left a few minutes after she arrived, so as not to let the cosmic Umaversalism blow my mind completely.
I’m pretty sure the only way I can bring the world back into balance now is to get a manicure at one of her low-key alleged haunts, right after I take a yoga class from her brother who once let me crush his ankles in order to pull my sad, dead-weight ass into wheel pose.
*i.e. thinking about for 15 seconds about once every few months when one of these fricking things comes up