I have a love/hate relationship with girlie mags. The other day, feeling moody, I automatically engaged in a deeply-ingrained comfort ritual. I went to CVS for the latest issue of Cosmo and a Dairymilk Fruit & Nut chocolate bar. I didn't think about my response too much until I started reading the magazine. It suddenly became apparent to me how long it's been since I indulged in that monthly tradition, based on my shock and indignation, which was followed immediately by titillation. I smacked the open page in grinning disbelief and demanded that my friend examine the soft-core porn masquerading as sex education. Either things in women's magazines have progressed significantly since I last purchased Cosmo, or I've tamed down a little. Amazed, I felt the need to research further. So I went on a complete binge, purchasing the latest copy of Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Mademoiselle, Allure, Vogue, Elle, and Martha Stewart. (We'll address the Martha Stewart subject in a separate installment.)My whole life I have been obsessed with three things: radio, magazines, and the U.S. Postal Service. (Like Martha Stewart, broadcast media and the mail will have to wait for another time. )
When I was the tender age of eight, my sister, who is almost 9 years my senior, began bringing home those heavily scented, glossy volumes. She would curl up on the couch, one hand in the Glamour fashion section and the other in a two-pound bag of M&Ms. This was her therapy. My mother would shake her head and remind her to store these harbingers of all things sex and girly in her room, safe from the prying eyes of little sis. But occasionally, in a chocolate stupor, she forgot them on the coffee table. I would wrap them in an issue of National Geographic and smuggle them up to my room, poring through each page, convinced my life would begin at Seventeen.
When I became old enough to procure my very own copy of Cosmopolitan magazine, I was instantly hooked. Everything between the covers was beautiful and exciting. The stories, the drama, the sex, the relationships. The women were flawless and they lived naughty, indulgent lives. I couldn't wait to create this perfect existence. I tore out pages by the hundreds and hung them in the appropriate places. Tweeze the perfect brow. Create an at-home pedicure. Improve your late night vocabulary. Make a mask out of avocado and egg whites. Develop the perfect thighs. Wow him in bed. (That topic was temporarily on hold, but it was inspiring to read about. I took notes for later use.) The best part? This succulent stream of knowledge could be mine for only $12 a year.
Then life started moving pretty fast, and I was rich with knowledge accumulated during years of compulsive girl-rag research. I was ready to unleash myself on the world.
When I turned seventeen, after delivery a particularly mind-blowing round of fellatio, the recipient jumped up and stared at me in disbelief. "Where did you learn how to do that?!" he demanded. So I told him. "Cosmo." He thought I was kidding.
"I've been with women twice your age who couldn't do that... " I recommended they pick up a copy of the April issue. Excellent article, informative diagrams.
My sister watched me grow increasingly addicted to trashy magazines. Perhaps in an effort to subvert the snowball she began, she bought me a subscription to Sassy. It was the anti-Cosmo. The models were all real girls, and the articles were on deep topics. Volunteer in your home town. Make your own t-shirts. Dye your hair with henna (without staining your mom's sink). Defend yourself against sexual harassment. Shop for back to school at the Salvation Army. Listen to these indie bands. The photography in Sassy was dark and arty, and it was a 10X14" format page with matte finish. On a rack of glossy pink periodicals, it was truly unique.
At first I fought it. I was missing something. Maybe the change of scenery would make my brows imperfect! But as I read more and more Sassy, the other magazines began to irritate me with their shiny falsity. Plus the trampy language in Cosmo started reminding me of all the squealing numbskulls I went to high school with and I had enough of them all day.
By the time I got to college, I also nursed an addiction to Spin, Rolling Stone and Alternative Press. I struck out my rebel forces against the trite and shallow Cosmo. What is all this perfect hair bullshit? What is all this woman-as-man-pleasing-vehicle crap? Who cares what boots are in? (If they're not Doc Martens, they don't come in my size anyway.) Donning band shirts and ultraviolet hair, articles on little black dresses and sleek ponytails were irrelevant to me. And wholly single, why would I want to read about someone else's steamy sex and relationship dramas? I divorced myself from the world of Mademoiselle, InStyle and Allure. I stocked up on Raygun.
But Sassy turned its back on me and began to morph into some pseudo-hip version of Teen. It was bought by Conde Naste, the media giant that puts out every other magazine on the rack. And my safe haven, my last hope, began to look just like them. Back in '94, Jane Pratt, the mastermind behind Sassy, left the magazine because she couldn't take it anymore. That's when I ditched my subscription. Jane eventually started another magazine, Jane. Hmm. It's evolved into Cosmo with a forced punk attitude -- out for shock value and little else. Beware aging hipsters who name publications after themselves.
I was convinced that young women need a magazine that showed them there's other things to life besides lip gloss and party conversation. While both of those topics can be useful, they are just a small part of the young adult female world. I decided I would pioneer this movement. Jane Pratt bedamned. And I chose my major at BU: Magazine Journalism.I enjoyed my Magazine classes. Creative nonfiction, record reviews. Art layout using Quark X-press on a slick Macintosh. But as I dug into my studies, I found that I was losing my edge -- the anger that had propelled me into the world of Print Journalism. Like all false rebels, I eventually let go of the cause. I could endure the bare midriff of Cindy Crawford in the checkout line with minor snarling. And aside from an aching lust for Milla Jovovich of the translucent violet eyes, I rarely gave supermodels another thought. I stepped down from my soapbox.
Somewhere along the line I forgot about girl magazines all together. They became like television. Oh yeah -- some people actually sit and look at that stuff. Regularly. I bought a subscription to Time Magazine. I started reading Wired and ID. I papered my walls with Wallpaper.
So the other day I undertook a mission to get up to speed on the world of fashion magazines. (I was, actually, looking for winter coat inspiration. Really. ) I was shocked and embarrassed by the candor with which sex and body issues were addressed. Yes, me. I didn't remember there being such graphic descriptions of sex positions, or such lusty photographs. Flipping through the pages, I realized everyone in the world was having hot steamy sex but me. And they all had flushed, dewy skin and killer blond highlights. Once my shock abated, the curiosity got the best of me. It reminded me of watching MTV for the first time in five years; asking with one raised eyebrow, "This is my generation?"
Pure entertainment without the burden of visceral response. A pleasantly removed curiosity.I enthusiastically immersed myself in my favorite aspect of Cosmo -- which is, ironically, what drove me away in the first place -- the cheeky, fluffy word choice and tendency to alliterate everything. Now I find it priceless. "Party Time Pillow Talk." "Tame Unruly Tresses." Such candy! The sex-talk is straight out of a Harlequin Romance novel: "Grasp his throbbing member. . . "
My reaction to this literature has progressed from obsession to disdain to affectionate amusement.So this month, after years of confusion, I feel like I finally understand the male species after finishing a two-page piece called, "The One Thing He Wants In Bed (You'll Be Surprised)." If you're not sure what that one thing is, pick up the September issue of Cosmo. The diagrams on page 87 may inspire you.
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