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Location: California

I love paper. Books printed on acid-free paper and bound in cloth turn me on. I'm crazy about bookmarks, and I buy too many stickers. I could spend hours in the build-your-own-greeting card section of my neighborhood craft store. My favorite thing to eat is bread, and my second favorite is fruit. (Mm, pineapple.) I read too much and too fast, and I watch too many food shows (two ways of looking at gluttony). Gloomy, rainy weather calms me and so I can't wait to move out of California, which will happen, sadly, too many years from now to count. I'm vegan, though I haven't managed to eliminate honey from my diet yet. I practice yoga; it's the only way I can keep fit. I have a better life than I ever imagined I would (or deserve to) have, but I do my best to enjoy it rather than feel guilty about it. That's my daily struggle -- and also to be thoughtful and observant and honest with myself.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Vogue Fever

I bought the March issue of Vogue magazine because I love the haircut on the cover. I just threw the magazine in my cart at the grocery store and tryed not to think too much about what I was doing. I'd never bought Vogue before. I dislike fashion magazines. The wads and wads of clothing and perfume and jewerly ads depress me. I shiver when I see the skeletal models with shimmery skin lie about in not very subtle sexual poses. But I figured that a rule -- my promise to myself not to spend money on fashion mags -- is not a very good rule if it doesn't get broken at least one. (And at most once, I'm hoping very hard).

So here I am, with my 600-page thick Vogue, my wrists aching a bit from flipping through it. I'm as horrified as ever by the ads but pleasantly shocked (surprised is too mild a word) by some articles I found tucked all the way at the back of the issue. A review of a recent biography of the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova! A piece on gourmet beans! Another on bread and fish! A review of the biography of the Russian poet...! (I can't get over that one.) Sadly, these didn't compensate for the overload of images of skinny women in obscenely expensive clothing. I feel like I've had a sugar overdose. I need to give my brain healthy food for a few weeks to return to normal. The poetry of Mary Oliver, a volume of which I just bought. The sight of my dwarf citrus finally blooming, the first flower shyly opened, the petal tips curling apart.

The most scary thing inside that glossy paper behemoth is head shots of four famous models who look no more than thirteen (thirteen!!) years old. The picture caption quips about how much these girl learn about make-up while they're being prepped to go onto the runaway. They're veritable experts on blush and lipstick and whatever other esoteric powders and pigments one uses to cover up one's face! This sent a chill down my spine. These girls don't even look like they've gotten their periods. These girls should be still playing with dolls and reading Nancy Drew. These girls should bake cookies with their mothers.

So, I have all the time in the world now to stare at Natalie Portman and her "gamine" crop and torture myself about whether or not I should cut my hair that short too. I love short hair. I'm scared of short hair. Should I, or shouldn't I... Oh, get over it, GW. Don't let Vogue rub quite so thickly on you.


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