I have been riding high in the afterglow from the happiest day of my life, Evan and Michelle’s wedding, when my husband gets an alert on his phone and utters these two words: “Jimmy Kimmel.”
Since my luck has been on the positive side lately, I thought he was going to say he scored tickets for when my Hall Pass comes to Brooklyn in a few weeks.
We’ve been waiting  for those tickets for years.
Jimmy Kimmel .
That sexy, sensitive hilarious host who makes me laugh and keeps me informed and who’s wakened my libido, four nights a week.
Who reminds me that hot macho men can weep openly on camera when an a-hole kills a beloved lion , Cecil, in a sanctuary on another continent, who had even  atheists praying for his beautiful brave little boy who went through three major heart surgeries.
He wasn’t even taping when we were in Los Angeles last summer, but I felt total reverence just being across the street, looking at his studio sign.
 I feel like somebody didn’t just take an icon off of the air, they took actual air out of my lungs.
This is beyond frightening.
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