All my life, I’ve loved women’s magazines. As a kid, I poured over them, searching for new hairstyles and make-up tricks, even before I was allowed to wear make-up. Of course, I scrutinized and practiced every single diet tip I found, no matter how odd!!!!!
The minute I was old enough, I got my own subscriptions, which I’ve kept to this day – because until recently, I’ve loved these magazines dearly. Currently, I receive Elle, Vogue, Marie Claire, Harper’s Bazaar, Glamour, Allure,Oprah and probably a couple of others I can’t remember.
My feminist friends scoff at me. When I lived with my brother, I think it embarrassed my sister that they arrived at the house.
Many years ago, I took a Vogue magazine on a chartered bus to a Pro-choice rally in Washington. The women on the bus glared me, and my embarrassed friend asked me to put it away.
Now suddenly, I notice, the magazines arrive and pile up in a corner, untouched. I no longer have any interest. And why would I – half the time I forget to comb my hair, I rarely wear make-up AND I never diet…
I realize this new disinterest has happened as I have stopped worrying about my weight. The magazines begin to look vapid and silly. All the women in them are skinny – something I don’t aspire to be. They’re young – something I am not. And they’re wearing clothes meant for a woman of a different age with a different body and of different means.
They’re kind of the antithesis of who I am now. Okay, now back to my book.