I did other things this weekend other than muse about the last 24-odd months, heavily pressing on the rewind button.
I bought Vogue's August issue, the Age Issue, as it has now been called for the last few years.
They profile a bunch of women, in different decades, in various stages of achievement, focus on the clothes they wear while they achieve these things (it is Vogue) and usually do an all around good job on writing sound articles with objectives that give glimpses into the lives of many powerful women, often externally-powerful women. But powerful nonetheless.
I was particularly interested to read this year's August issue having just finished reading a searing unauthorized bio of Anna Wintour, a real page-turner about a woman who, after reading this book, sounds about as vapid and shallow (and as ruthlessly determined) as anyone could ever be.
So maybe I was looking for Vogue's flaws this month. Maybe.
The heiresses to a cosmetics fortune jet-setting about Paris in their little neighbourhoods left me with a bad taste in my mouth, thinking, hey, they didn't work for any of that glamour and money. They had it gifted to them from their dads and grandads.
The woman writing about plastic surgery for earlobes (for real) and jawlines left me thinking: Wow. This is what we want women to think about instead of reading real books, coming up with new ideas (that don't involve a perfume line, a new night cream, or a secret anti-aging serum).
I consider it a good day if I don't wake up looking puffy-eyed, like I've been crying, or had a bad sleep. I don't even consider my earlobes. I can't diet. I just had a piece of cold chicken from the fridge, dry and crispy-skinned, because I barely ate dinner and I realized I've run, in the heatwave of this July week, over 35 k, walked about 10. I need those calories.
I bought a $ 14 Old Navy bikini, because I believe that's what you should pay for a couple of scraps of fabric, with no buttons or zippers. Also, I don't fit into my bikinis from four years ago. I just don't . Because I'm now a good few years PAST thirty-five, and I still need to eat.
I didn't stay out late Saturday night at the newest club drinking expensive champange or doing fun French things in a very expensive dress. I slept on the couch in my mother's house, staying up far too late because I was into the book I was reading. And my hair was in a damp bun, and I considered it a good day because my face had some sun on it and I didn't look like death warmed over.
So...that was my Vogue experience. And I pepper this post liberally with grains of "to each her own". But god. What a letdown this time.