Let me ask you something — if you got hit by a car less than a week ago, what would you be doing today? Here, I’ll take a couple of guesses (because one or more of the following is what I’d be doing): crying, seeing a therapist, working through the residual (and now lifelong) fear, bitching to whoever will listen, taking a trip to calm your nerves, once again bitching to anyone who will listen, being pissed off, bemoaning your fate, wondering how you’ll ever face the world again, or perhaps putting together a workout plan that doesn’t include jogging, the activity you were doing when you were struck in cold blood.

Those are just a few of the ways I, in my infinite class and wisdom, might react. What I would likely not be doing is flashing a megawatt smile just inches below my wounds, as I step out with my hair casually done, in a pretty dress and earrings, carrying a festively wrapped gift, to happily attend a birthday party.

And yet, that’s exactly what Reese Witherspoon was doing today, after being taken out by an 84-year-old woman just last Wednesday.

Maybe this is why I’m not famous. Because no amount of PR can force someone to behave with this much class. Well played, Reese.