Fashion Victims of the World, Unite!

I read an occasional magazine and enjoy it when I do. I need something to look at when drying my nails and enjoy the mindless perusal of wealthy pursuits. But my complaints about fashion magazines are… many.

Whoever gave us ‘heroin chic’ should be shot. A hot shot, preferably. Do anything to get them off the editorial board, further confusing normal women like me who wonder why we don’t look fab like emaciated junkies pictured.

Beauty editors lost all credibility with me - forever. I don’t trust their taste, much less their judgment. Beauty editors are blithering idiots on the dole if that’s what they claim as fashion forward. Prostitutes – all.

Don’t show me un-wearable, tacky as hell clothes that fetch more than my monthly salary for an ugly outfit. Show me middle class clothes that respectable professionals should wear. Not high flying, jet setting clothes only an oil tycoon cheating on his fifth wife would buy me as a gift.

And none of that ghetto garbage from a contrived culture lauded as authentically black. Jailhouse fashion is not what I care to pay for, much less buy into. I got an education and a future. I want to look it.

For all my considerable efforts, give me an honest benchmark of what a hot body is. Not some fictional, freakish fantasy that drives me to a bulimia-induced frenzy. I don't understand how some women in print don’t actually have knees, much less fat on them that a surgeon’s lipo tube or an artist’s airbrush kit somehow missed.

Give me a real woman to admire. I want real tits and real ass and honest flat abs to emulate. I’ll diet anyway. Weight Watchers Points, The Fat Flush Plan, The Perricone Promise – I believe, I believe! I’m already exercising. Running marathons and half-marathons, doing Combat Abs and the Magnificent Seven, skiing nowhere on the NordicTrack – I’m sweating and loving it! There are no white pants without Spanx – it’s my religion!

Magazine articles are incomplete, sensational, or blatant adverts for products with outrageous claims that we so desperately want to believe are true. They give you enough information to be interested but not enough to benefit from reading it. What a waste.

Wow, a cup of green goop can erase wrinkles, prevent cancer, spontaneously abort unwanted babies and conceive long wanted ones? At $125.00 on a continuous monthly payment plan, I’ll take it! Who cares that it causes pancreatic cancer, birth defects, eventual blindness, and thick vaginal discharge with continued use? I’ll be thin and wrinkle-free. Screw the unborn progeny!

I want writing that’s worth investing precious minutes of reading, for which I’ll pay any price. I want to connect with the writer through the writing’s mental monologue. I want writing that I can’t wait to get back to after being forcibly pulled away. I want to feel devastated when the piece ends; losing the connection that can’t even be made with lovers or resumed again with another writer. I want phrases rattling through my head like an obsessive compulsive deprived of her meds who can’t purge her endless thoughts. I want words to hit me hard like the clanging of a cast iron skillet, which soothes with its brittle coolness to the touch.

I don’t want filler in print because it’s someone’s full-time job to write when they really want to edit. I want to hear from beautiful women about their continuous efforts, large and small, so I can look great naked. More important, so I can look as good as how I want my man to think I look when I’m naked.