If you’ve ever been sitting around watching Iron Man 3 and found yourself thinking, why can’t I be Pepper Potts? Why can’t I have some of that chilly, willowy elegance? Why didn’t I come up with the term “conscious uncoupling” instead of just divorcing my first husband like some stupid commoner?

If you’ve ever found yourself thinking these or similar things, well then, you’re not alone. I’m guessing there are at least three or four and possibly up to several hundred thousand women who’ve thought along the same lines.

Why can’t I afford a $70 mushroom knife or $1,000 to be on the Tesla Motors waitlist? Why can’t my children be raised on nothing but nut milk and root vegetables grown in consecrated soil and hand-picked by virgins with ancient souls? Why can’t I look equally good either with bangs or without?

The list goes on, but I’m here to tell you, we don’t need to beat ourselves up over it any longer, and here’s why:

Gwyneth Paltrow poops.

She does! I know this for a fact, mainly because regardless of perfect teeth or impeccable pedigrees, poop is inescapable. There’s no way not to do it, and as far as I know, they’ve yet to come up with an invention that can make it any prettier. I’ve perused the Goop website and I’m sure if such a thing existed, you could buy it there. But all I found were $70 mushroom knives. I didn’t even know there was a special knife for mushrooms. I guess that goes to show you why my recipes never turn out right.

Speaking of mushrooms, I wonder if Gwyneth knows that they’re grown in poop? Though I guess hers are probably grown in the poop of the ancient-souled virgins, but still. Maybe there is a $3,500 mushroom-washing mechanism that she could buy somewhere. Oh, who am I kidding. Surely she already has it.

Anyway, back to the facts. Gwyneth poops. And to take it a step further, I guarantee you she’s found herself in the position where she has to poop RIGHT NOW, or else face utter catastrophe. Maybe she was at the Met Gala or the Lakers game, but either way I know she’s had to rush to the public restroom and take care of her business.

This happened to me once in the car with my husband, and it was very embarrassing to tell him why we needed to get home as quickly as humanly possible. My husband and I don’t talk about things like this and, furthermore, he’ll probably be embarrassed that I’m writing it. But when he asks me about it, I’ll tell him sometimes the truth must be told: we all poop.

When my kids – two boys – were littler, one of them asked me if girls poop. I said, “No. They do not.” For all I know they still believe this. But one day when the time comes and some girl breaks one of their little hearts, I’ll tell them, “Guess what – she poops. I lied to you but now it’s time for the truth. In fact I am pretty sure she dumped you only because she’s constipated and miserable.” Quite frankly, I’m glad I have that ace up my sleeve.

I mean, I know. I get that it might be a little weird to tell my kids that girls don’t poop. But I think we all can agree that even though everyone does it, we’d rather have everyone believe that we don’t. Or at least not envision each other doing it. So when little Apple or Moses asks Gwyneth, “Mommy, do you poop?” I am guessing she will say, “No, honey. Of course not. I don’t poop. I cleanse.

You know what, though?  It doesn’t matter, because we will all know the truth.  You can call it what you want and you call sell it for $280, but when you get right down to it, poop is poop.

Hallelujah.