THERE was a time a while back when, whenever the gossip mags wrote about Jennifer Aniston, they’d always preface her name with ‘Sad’.
Sad Jen Aniston – it was like one of those three-part names like Sarah Jessica Parker or Sarah Michelle Gellar, and call me a cynic, but I’m convinced we haven’t seen the last of her.
For someone who was allegedly one of the most desirable women on earth, this must have been extremely annoying, especially when a quick roll-call inevitably followed, ticking off the regiment of men it took to award Aniston, 57, her nickname; Brad Pitt, John Mayer and Justin Theroux, for starters.
But now she is apparently planning to marry someone called Jim Curtis who she has been dating since 2025; celeb-years are like dog-years when it comes to relationships, so this is like a decade for the rest of us.
He looks like one of those men who habitually whispers ‘Rock Star’ at his reflection every morning.
He appears to have the aw-shucks charm of Pitt, the narcissism of Mayer and the pretentiousness of Theroux – without apparently having the independently successful careers of all of these, having only come to public notice when Aniston fell for his charms.
To be fair, she has rarely looked lovelier, and Curtis, 50, is wolfishly handsome.
But ‘wellness coach’ Mr Curtis – who has reportedly encouraged Aniston to ‘look inward (unfortunate suggestions of a colonoscopy there) – has a distinct whiff of snake oil about him, or rather, of woo-woo.
As a friend says: “They’ve done intensive regression therapy together, and Jen and Jim believe they met in a past life.
“They feel their souls were destined to find each other again in this timeline to complete their journey. It’s all very woo-woo and spiritual, but it absolutely works for them.”
What is woo-woo? Boiled down to its sticky residue, it’s extreme silliness masquerading as spirituality.
Woo-woo is especially attractive to disappointed women of a certain age; crystals, Goddess workshops and having a shaman on Skype speed-dial.
Gong baths, forest baths, any bath that doesn’t feature water; meditation, mindfulness, manifestation, and ‘cacao ceremonies’ where menopausal women pay other menopausal women to make them a hot chocolate in a flask while they watch the sun rise; call it a cacao ceremony and pay a hundred quid for the privilege.
Past-life regression: a couple I knew told everyone they met that in a past life, and that the woman was apparently the husband’s mother in Ancient Rome.
Their ageing whippet was also with them in Rome, which explained why, at 8,000 years old, he sometimes struggled on his daily walk.
Curtis himself was ‘regressed’ on a television talk show as a youngster and discovered that he was a Native American who was murdered.
The Wonder Of You
It’s funny how regressions bring up such dramatic results – no one’s ever just a bank clerk bored with their daily commute.
Until she saw sense and started showing off what her mama gave her again on Traitors, the most flagrantly silly face of homeland woo-woo was probably Charlotte Church, who in 2022 turned her very big house in the country into a ‘wellness retreat’ complete with a shower which the singer described as akin to a ‘very large and unusual-shaped vagina’, and a ‘womb room’.
According to planning documents, Church aimed to create ‘a system of non-hierarchical participatory democracy’ inside the property.
‘The Dreaming’ was due to open in 2022 – but was postponed due to a problem with too much sewage, which unkind souls might say is the overriding impression that one got from the whole daft enterprise.
But one can see why high-maintenance women might go for men like Mr Curtis.
After the parade of go-getting career-driven arch-narcissists Aniston has been left high and dry by, it might be refreshing to look into the limpid eyes of some smooth-talking guru who only wants to talk about The Wonder Of You.
The only Woo Woo I’ve got time for is this one: ‘Mix vodka, peach schnapps and cranberry juice, and garnish with a lime wedge’
On the other hand, knowing how prevalent stealth-narcissists are on the dodgy borderline where self-care meets self-advancement, there’s an equal chance that Dr Love is simply staring into your eyes in order to see his own reflection.
Falling for a snake-oil smoothie is the modern equivalent of those women who used to fall for vicars, and hang around making themselves useful in church in the hope that earthly love might eventually get a look-in.
Perhaps in a decade’s time, all this meditation, mindfulness and manifestation will be seen for what it is – old-fashioned eccentricity with a self-improving spin.
Personally, the only Woo Woo I’ve got time for is this one: ‘Mix vodka, peach schnapps and cranberry juice, and garnish with a lime wedge’.