The date: July 24th
The time: 9:15 a.m.
The place: 57th Street between 5th and 6th Avenue
Sighted: "I saw Renee Zellweger on my way to work this morning. She was dressed in gym clothes and gave a homeless guy a pack of gum and a dollar."
The date: July 20th
The time: 9:48 a.m.
The place: 19 E. 57th Street
Sighted: "Renee Zellweger walking toward Bliss Spa. Wearing yoga pants, long sleeved T, and flip flops, drinking Starbucks and looking better than anyone else."
If history has taught us anything, it is that the two greatest motivators known to mankind are high school reunions and inciting jealousy in an ex. And while it's possible that Renee Zellweger is prepping for her grand entrance at her reunion because she was, like so many of us, rejected for the sophomore semiformal by a guy who looks like a rabid chipmunk, sleeps in a Ferrari-shaped bed and works for the United Jewish Appeal, the more likely scenario is that Renee's current insane workouts are a last ditch attempt to incite jealousy in former flame and recent co-star George Clooney.
Fully knowing that George reads Gawker Stalker Maps, Renee has launched what can only be described as a desperate campaign to win George back, sending in sightings of herself invariably dressed in yoga gear "looking great." And, believing us to be ignorant fools, just yesterday a "tipster" emailed the Stalkettes wondering if we've "noticed that nearly all of Renee Zellweger's Gawker Stalker sightings are basically of her in workout clothes?" Please, Renee. Have some dignity.
Renee's pathetic (albeit successful) attempts to get onto Gawker Stalker Maps and into Stalk of the Town begs the question: why must she resort to Bridget Jones-like tactics in order to bag a man? Why can't Renee —a Hollywood starlet—just date George?
For most other celebrities, nabbing George would be as routine as checking into a hospital for exhaustion. These same celebrities are also "all natural" and blessed with god-given implants and airbrushed 32-pack abs. Yet other celebrities must work hard to counteract their round, lemon-eating faces and the fact that they are over the hill by at least ten years.
The conclusion is inevitable and absolute: Renee's celebritydom, like that of Minnie Driver, is accidental, and a result, she must bear the crushing burden of trying to emulate a higher class of humanity. If she were a real celebrity she could have married a gay Kenny Chesney and just taken up Scientology—she wouldn't have lost face by filing for divorce by fraud. If she were a real celebrity should wouldn't have to pretend to be George Clooney's best friend a la Eponine in Les Miserables—she could just date him and live in his totally bitchin' Lake Como villa full time, instead of lame "just passing through" drive-bys and transparent "may I borrow some sugar?" attempts.
The tragedy of Renee's sad Gawker game is another reminder that celebrities are born, not made. Either you're born with implants and a nosejob or you're not, and no amount of Mari Windsor Pilates (yes, I'm talking about you, Daisy Fuentes) or Grind workout videos can bridge such an unbridgeable gap.