I worry about Paris Hilton.
Right now, she is enjoying her overextended 15 minutes of fame as the perpetually wicked rich girl, on the covers of more magazines than we care to see.
Right now, she is the darling of the paparazzi and, if they were not already chasing her down, she would be doing yet another bimbo-esque thing to bring them running back.
What happens when she hits that pivotal 30-year old mark? In terms of celebrity, this can be a dangerous age for women. As the decades roll by and age 40 looms ahead, like an awaiting vulture, I anticipate she will be doing even more over-the-top, highly controversial things. Like Madonna and Janet Jackson, when you are sliding closer towards being able to become a card-carrying member of the AARP, you have to do absurdly irrational stuff, like kissing Britney Spears on live television or staging “wardrobe malfunctions” in front of millions of Super Bowl fans, to get the media to take notice. Unlike their male counterparts, aging female celebs are perceived as being less interesting.
At least Madonna and Janet, as desperate for attention as they are, have genuine talent. What will poor little Paris have to fall back on, since she possesses no real gifts for anything outside of shopping and backing into parked cars ? A youth- obsessed media is not half as interested.in the shannanagans of a spoiled socialite in her 30s or 40s. The airheaded things she is famous for now will not be nearly as cute in a few years and she will likely be perceived as a middle-aged, trust fund dingbat.
Will she be given over to getting a succession of plastic surgeries in attempts to fight the inevitable aging process, as it attaches itself to her, like an unwanted fungus? Will she end up on one of those third rate reality shows starring third rate has-been or never-was celebrities? Will she be like Zsa Zsa, slapping a cop just to get a little press coverage?
The media is not kind or fair to women who get older and garnering publicity for herself appears to give Paris Hilton’s life some vacuous purpose. How will she deal with no longer being the center of attention of photographers and gossip columnists?
Will dear Paris find true love or end up with a parade of younger male golddiggers in the years to come, like the late heiress Barbara Hutton, strictly there to placate her vanity while they fleece her dry? Is she going to be some 98-year old recluse?
I can picture her now, holed up in bed all alone in one of her mansions, surrounded by ancient magazine covers and newspaper clippings featuring her in her younger, happier days, as her latest chihuahua poops on her yellowed photos of Nick Carter.
Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that.
Still, I do worry about Paris.