This Is Getting Old

I’d love to start a new Screen Shot 2015-11-12 at 12.58.59 PMmagazine for women. Yes, I know the print publication business is not exactly what I would call a robust commerce to embrace, but I still think I could fill a niche. I want to do a monthly magazine that doesn’t insult, scare or bully anyone walking around with a uterus.

I was stuck at the Dallas airport last week and while killing time at a Hudson News perused almost every magazine they had up to and including the very traumatic More. More magazine is billed as being for mature females. It’s slogan is “for woman of style and substance” which in marketing parlance translates to “because birthdays happen.”

I try to steer clear of the magazine because in it’s attempt to do the whole “you’re not getting older, you’re getter better” thing it hurts my feelings. Primarily, because “mature” means being one of the 30-year-old actress they put on their covers. What happened to 50 is the new 30? That sentiment lasted for a hot flash minute.

In my head I can visual how these women’s magazines editorial meetings go down. I see a group of well-groomed females, all clutching Starbucks with their manicured talons, and all in need of some sort of solid food sustenance. In the pre-meeting chatter, every single one of them with a body mass index so insignificant that their overly pronounced clavicle could do double duty as a coat rack, is moaning about being fat.

Pardon me for a moment as I abandon my story to do a little public service announcement. Woman who are not fat, stop saying you’re fat. It makes everyone who hears you say this question your intelligence and your mental health. Plus your pathological quest for constant compliments about how you “look amazing” is not only tiring, it’s beyond boring. If you’re old enough to vote than let’s all agree that you should have more going on in your life than complaining about your thigh gap.

Back to the editorial meeting which I’m envisioning as a coven complete with cackling and an organic based eye-of-newt and kale juice cleanse cooking in a Vitamix cauldron. Now cut to witches discussing the best, newest, and most alarming ways to make bearers of two X chromosomes feel bad. I’m sure they even have a life-size target of the female form in their conference room and throw darts to see what body part they’re going to make women weep    over next.

I just know have to be right about this because how else did we become obsessed about elbows and the already mentioned thigh gap. Ladies, how can we not like our elbows? Their nature’s amazing hinge. The elbow is work of art. Who cares if it’s not smooth? Was it ever smooth? I mean it’s hinging all the time so that would preclude a 24/7 smoothness wouldn’t it? As for the  thigh gap that concept is so ridiculous I can’t even go there.

The latest dart thrown must have landed right smack dab in the middle of the metacarpal and phalanges because something called “rhino hands” was in a lot of magazines. First, can I just say I love rhinoceros. Have you ever seen a baby rhino? It’s cuteness quotient is off the charts. Plus rhinos have a thick protective skin full of collagen. Isn’t collagen the holy grail in the anti-aging industry? So, how can rhino hands be a bad thing?

Okay, I’ll grant that the appearance of a rhinoceros’ skin doesn’t scream, “velvety softness,” but I guess rhinos are enjoying a busy, fulfilling life that precludes them from worrying about having a silky epidermis. Sadly, it seems I can’t say this about women magazine editors.

So, while rhinos are out there living large female homosapiens are being told that they are in dire need of a “hand lift.” This is when you inject, yes inject with a big old needle, some chemical filler in your hands to make them “plump and smooth out.”

I don’t know about you, but I just got woozy over the thought of getting freaking needles shoved in my bony hands. I’d rather be out on the African grasslands kicking back and taking a mud bath with a real rhino than subjecting myself to this latest “beautification” ritual.

I’m looking at my hands right now, because you know, I’m typing and while they don’t resemble the adorable chubbiness of a dimpled toddler’s digits they appear to be okay. Better than what they look like is what they do. Hands do all the emotional heavy lifting in life from hugging, to touching, to holding. We are nothing without our hands and I, for one, don’t care if mine are a little “rhino.”

Where’s that story women magazine editors?

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