One minute, I have a head full of hair. The next, I have a strong jaw line and an uncanny ability to deliver unforgettable acting performances imbued with sparkle and elan.

No sooner had I removed the remaining strands of hair above my ear with my electric razor, than I developed both an impeccable sense of style and an affinity for infinity scarves. How these stylish Warby Parker eyeglasses instantly appeared on my face, I couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that I’ve never felt more comfortable in a check tweed blazer and matching double-breasted waistcoat than I do in this very moment. Suddenly, I have this insatiable desire to purchase a chic pair of leather oxfords—a desire that can only be quenched by the shops that line Via Montenapoleone.

Speaking of Italy, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been there recently. Searching for… something. I can’t quite put my manicured finger on it. Odd, I know. The only Rome I’ve ever been to is the one in New York, yet here I am, eating maritozzi for breakfast and wishing I could kiss the butcher that lives across the street on both cheeks. I guess I just need some time to wrap my perfectly symmetrical head around this bizarre predicament. In the meantime, I’m going to eat my weight in carbohydrates and not gain a single pound. Parmesan, anyone?

At first, I was reluctant to leave my luscious locks and sweatshirts with the deodorant stains under the armpits behind, but I must admit, being Stanley Tucci comes with some phenomenal benefits. Being related to John Krasinski is definitely one of them. Another one is being able to cough and say Pam every single time he gives Emily Blunt a kiss. It’s almost as good as The Tucci Cookbook, a delightful collection of irresistible recipes, mouth-watering photographs, and beloved Italian traditions that you can purchase right now on Amazon or at your nearest bookstore.

Seriously, purchase it now. Like, right now. I’ll wait.

As much as I adore being able to actually taste the difference between a Merlot and a Malbec, being Stanley Tucci does have its challenges. For instance, there’s that lingering “issue” with Anne Hathaway. At the risk of being branded a cold-hearted murderer, like the character I played in The Lovely Bones (a role that garnered numerous award nominations, I might add), I had to kill one of her most beloved ideas. You see, she wanted to do a sequel to The Devil Wears Prada featuring Miranda Priestly as the actual devil, and Andy Sachs as a conflicted investigative journalist torn between her desire to protect her former boss and her need to write an award-winning exposé that reveals Miranda’s true identity to the world. I told her that it was a terrible idea, and that a Broadway musical featuring Nigel as the new head of Runaway magazine after killing Miranda, Emily, Nate, Doug, James Holt, Jacqueline, and anyone else who stands in his way, would be a much better one. Suffice to say, we are no longer on speaking terms, but I did send her a lovely pair of Jimmy Choo patent leather pumps for Christmas. Hopefully, she’ll return one of my calls.

In short, being Stanley Tucci is not at all like being a thirty-seven-year-old IT consultant who works from home and sometimes forgets to brush his teeth on a daily basis. And while I’m slowly adjusting to this new normal, I am acutely aware of the fact that it could all change in an instant—or at least until my hair grows back a little and I become Jason Statham.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an exclusive grand opening of a prominent New York City-based restaurant to attend. Ciao.


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