Magazine Reading

Due to the aforementioned vestigial employment, I believe I stated that I read a surfeit of magazines. This is an understatement. I read more magazines than people who actually subscribe to magazines. I read more magazines than people who get PAID to read magazines. Though technically speaking, I am getting paid to read magazines.

I now know more about the love lives of the various up-and-coming young things than I do about the love lives of my actual friends. I know which $500 face cream I should be using to keep myself looking cardable forever. I know which perfumes flaps NEVER TO OPEN, and several of the most frequent model's names. I am filled with vapid information on how the new first lady of France is also the new Jackie-O but sexier, and how Mariah got her figure back. I know how I should get my figure back (though I won't do it, because who has free weights, an aerobic stair thing, an exercise ball, a personal trainer, and designer spandex all available at the same time?) I can tell the Olsen twins apart. My life has never seemed emptier. *Not true.

I also now am aware of an entire echelon of society that I had never even thought of before, much less cared to see in 8x12" glossy format. People with names like Tinsley, Celerie, Georgina, and Chiara. Toccara and Selita. Chanel Iman. Merriweather McGettigan. What the deuce were these women's parents thinking? Apparently, the more "creative" the name, the farther front you get to sit at Fashion Week. If I cared, perhaps I'd name my child Staccata. But then she'd actually have a private trainer and sculpted calves. I fear... no.

However, my magazine reading does help with the intense boredom of nothing to do all day except for talk to someone who, though she is really really nice, has nothing in common with me except for gender, occupation, and possessing hair. Also toenails.