A woman I know was going through years’ worth of women’s magazines and had stacked them in piles on her floor. Drawn to the images of cleavage (as any man with a pulse is), I started looking at and then reading the covers. After a while, I started to notice a pattern: the magazines were all the same. Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Elle, Allure, Vogue, W, the Oprah magazine…they veer back and forth between the same handful of subjects: sex, sexing down your man, losing weight in your arse, having the right dress, being terrified of having a wrinkle, sex, blowjobs, infidelity, shopping, and curing your depression through shopping.
What’s worse, I noticed that through a typical year, the magazines repeated themselves over and over again. The cover models changed but the messages remained the same: Your tits aren’t big enough. Your man is screwing around, possibly with your best friend. Your grandmother has better abs than you do. And your shoes? We’re sitting in our editorial meetings laughing at your shoes. They’re so late 2011.
Ladies, what the hell?
Listen, I’m all for women having as much information as possible about the different ways to properly deliver a first-class blowjob. What man isn’t? But bloody hell, who reads these things? How do they all stay in business? Are there really thousands of companies whose sole purpose for being is to sell push-up bras, diet pills and vibrators to desperate thirtysomethings with eating disorders?
Also, how the hell many ways are there to photograph Scarlett Johansson? She’s not a Picasso painting, you know. She only has one face. Quit putting her on your covers!
Ladies, you’re better than this. I admit that men’s magazines aren’t much better. Look at a year’s worth of Men’s Health and you’ll see the same infernal pattern: articles on how to have bigger biceps, how to delay your inevitable heart attack, how to stop dressing like a frat boy the night after a stag party, how to satisfy your woman despite the fact that you have a tiny little penis. But there are only a few “lad mags” selling this message. Women, the number of titles in the supermarket checkout line dedicated to making you feel insecure is equal to the population of the Isle of Man. Obviously, you keep buying them.
Why? You’re bloody gorgeous the way you are, and any man who disagrees is a wanker who doesn’t deserve to have his “secret sex zones” stimulated in that special Cosmo way. So why do you keep buying this crapnquiring Scotsmen want to know.