She was first spotted on the Web. Then I saw her peeking out behind the comparatively chaste women's magazines on newsstands. She's so almost-bare that my husband was too embarrassed to buy a copy of the magazine with other women present.
But I want to buy 100 copies and paper my room with them. Make it my new screen saver. Text the image to all my friends. Jennifer Aniston on the cover of GQ is unabashed, naked except for a tie and strategically placed index fingers. She looks sexy, brash, and incredibly toned. She looks good. She looks very, very good. But that's not the best part. She's thirty-freaking-nine. My age. The age of many of my friends, who also look good.
If we send up a time capsule to Mars, I want that image in it. I want aliens to understand how good we can look at 39. Other life forms need to know.
Maybe Aniston did it for publicity or to remind Brad for the umpteenth time what he gave up to take on all those kids and the biggest ego this side of the equator. In short, I don't think this jaw-dropping cover was done with altruism in mind. But just look at her. Yes, I know that photo retouching is kind. But still.
She looks free, happy, and maybe most important, very unencumbered. I want to shout it from the rooftops. She is me! She is 39 for all of us.
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