Dear Glamour Magazine:
I have been a subscriber to you off and on for the last fourteen years. It has come to my attention recently that you and I have nothing in common anymore, much like a friendship you outgrow over time. The main difference being, of course, that you and I were never really friends- you were always more like that super put together chick with the great skin and ridiculous figure I would run into at seven eleven when I had last nights make up under my eyes and chocolate smears on my sweat pants. Yeah, that’s pretty much how you made me feel, like you were smiling politely to my face but the minute I shut your cover, you were whispering to all your anorexic super model friends “Did you see what she was wearing? I mean, seriously, why even BOTHER?”
I understand you are supposed to be chock full ‘o tips to really benefit a certain type of woman’s life. My question to you is- where the hell are these women? WHO are they? Because I have been around a while, met all kinds of girls, and I just don’t seem to know ANY women who could apply your information to their actual real lives. Maybe I’m way off here, maybe there are secret little pockets of women in L.A, New York, New Jersey, even, who are pickin’ up what you are layin’ down, but I don’t know…Anyway, I am not really here to dis on your mag. It’s not your problem that even as a svelte and perky twenty two year old, scanning your pages gave me an inferiority complex. It’s not your fault that you made me question the relevancy of my life to the “real” world at the peak of my cuteness…really, it’s not.
I get that, at 36, I am no longer really your target demographic any longer. That ship has long ago sailed, I know. So I was hoping that maybe, in addition to discontinuing my current subscription ( I am too old, and my fourteen year old does NOT need to know the “Ten Things Guys Really Want In Bed” quite yet ) you might be able to steer me towards a more age appropriate periodical. I’m not so far gone that I don’t feel a little cringe of lameness at the sight of “Women’s Day” in my bathroom rack, and “Self”, though good, makes me feel a bit too pressured. There’s got to be something in between hot young diva and family van driving middle aged asexual in mom jeans, right?
I noticed on the cover of this months issue, along with a picture of a girl I have never seen before in my life, there is a tip for “Sexy Hair Ideas”. I have nothing against sexy hair, for sure, but the kind of magazine I need would have an article along the lines of “How to make it look like you brushed your hair when you can’t find your hairbrush and you have twelve minutes to get to work on time or else you are going to get written up.” Do you have any ideas? I see you also have, in your table of contents, “Edgy new hair you CAN pull off now!” No offense, but any hairdo I have to be cheer-led into does not bode well for real life. I still haven’t really figured out how to correctly use a blow dryer, for God’s sake.
I don’t want a model-turned-actress with seven foot long legs explaining to me how to “go naughtily nautical!” this year. Not only do I not know how those two things go together outside of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie, but I feel that you guys must really be running out of ideas. I don’t care how to take something from the runway to real life. I don’t feel the need to emulate a celebrity and I don’t feel a pressing need to know what’s hot this spring- if I did, I’d just take a stroll through Forever 21 with my daughter. It’s a lot of fun to see what passes for a large these days, anyway, and as an added bonus, the music is so loud in there that we can’t hear each other at all. Keeps the fighting to a minimum.
I’d like to address for a second the billions of ads in between articles, the cosmetics and perfume and clothes- items which I can actually probably afford now, but ironically, can’t buy. Why? Because they promptly disappear into the abyss of my teenagers room and although I certainly deserve to wear forty dollar lip gloss that stays on for three days and prevents lip cellulite, she does not. The truth is, I’d probably lose it anyway, then blame her for taking it- I’m the woman who can’t find her hairbrush, remember? I guess if I would have listened to your advice back in the nineties about why dating guys from metal bands is a no-no, or the top five reasons it’s okay to carry a condom in your purse, I wouldn’t be searching for my mascara and stiletto’s (I wasn’t going to wear them, I just didn’t want her to.) in the pit that passes for my kid’s room.
So, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way- just because your magazine seems to be filled with information suited only for a make-believe world, look at how well you are doing! What’s one less subscriber, really? There are droves of fifteen year old girls out there just dying to invest in all your gloss and fluff and calorie free goodness. The truth is, the most fun thing I can think of to do in bed these days is SLEEP- because I’ve already done the 57 coolest things you can do with a penis, I know where my g-spot is (or where it’s supposed to be, anyway) and quite frankly, there is more to freaking life, people.