It's over. We can all breathe again. Those of us that make our livings in Hollywood can now look up and see the world around us and not just through the prism of Awards bloggers and special events and red carpets and shaping a strategic narrative. Outside, nature has been washed, everything is glittering after yesterday's rain, and the birds are positively jubilant. And the best thing? A phone call from my daughter at 7.30am. "I'm calling you for JK Simmons" she says. I beam.
My neck has a permanent dent in it from looking down at my phone. One of this week's New Yorker covers is appropriate:
How many of us miss the butterflies?
Every day is a choice. I realize this as I lay in bed at 5 or 6, wondering whether I can handle what's coming at me, wondering how everything will turn out, wondering if I'm strong enough to function in this town (my chronic dislike of the red carpet is well documented) or keep my head high for another day. But today I got up, I went outside with my limpy lame old lumpy lady who can barely walk, and she stopped and sniffed the fresh, rain-cleansed air, and positively smiled at it, and I thought yes, you can do this.