For years, I subscribed at one time or another to most of
the major rags – Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, W, Town & Country (briefly, I just couldn’t relate), In Style, even Elle (which definitely skews 20-something -- and I was in my 40s at
the time!). I would stare at beautiful
pictures of amazing but often also weird clothes on otherworldly mannequins who
looked like they subsisted on a diet of bugs -- and I’d find a weird sort of
pleasure in knowing what “style makers” thought was the latest look.
In my 20s and 30s – even a little bit into my 40s – I would
try to replicate the latest fashion trends through careful shopping at
Loehmann’s or sales at Nordstrom. But
then, as most women I know do at some point, I succumbed to comfort and
conservatism – Talbots and Eileen Fisher and J. Jill became “go to” fashion
outlets for me, and 3-inch heels went the way of the dinosaur in favor of flats
for my flat feet.
Still, I continued to subscribe to the look books, even
though I rarely -- if ever -- saw myself in any of them. Certainly not in the pictures and not even in
most of the articles, which most frequently surveyed the newest techniques for
turning back the clock – or offered voyeuristic peeks into the lives of
glamorous women vacationing en
famille at their fabulous Caribbean or Mediterranean 3rd homes,
where they would be photographed in flowy caftans or gauzy tops and skirts,
tangled in the arms of their equally beautiful children and men.
My husband has never understood my affection for these
magazines, calling them “clothes porn” for women and girls. There's probably something to that; still, letting my subscriptions lapse has felt
almost like giving up one more connection to youth. Mine.
Last night, I found myself flipping through a May edition weeks after its arrival. I zoomed through the inch-and-a-half thick publication with little interest. It was
crystal clear that these magazines no longer held any real allure anymore because they lacked any possible relevance to my life – not even my
fantasy life.
It's true: Vogue is out
of vogue with me now and Bazaar is just
too….bizarre. Sorry, Anna. Sorry, Glenda. Good-bye girls.
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