Wednesday, May 20, 2009

I Curse You, Star Magazine

OK, so maybe I'm a bit overly sensitive right now -- Blame it on Flo's impending arrival -- but what the hell is the world coming to when Uma Friggin' Thurman is awarded the WORST BEACH BODY?!

Uma, for God's sake! What normal, non-famous woman wouldn't give her left nut to look like Uma Thurman? Yet, there was Uma in all her gorgeous glory on the cover of Star Magazine with "WORST SAGGY!" plastered next to her picture. What message is that sending to the rest of us mere mortals? Do we really need to be perfectly primped, pumped, and perky in order to be considered beautiful? That's craziness! Life happens, folks. Gravity is a law of nature. Big boobs will eventually droop. Especially natural ones. Uma is nothing short of Goddess level in my mind, yet she is relegated to the frumpy background while young, nubile hotties like Rihanna and Pink move into center stage. Rihanna and Pink, your time is comin'; enjoy the "BEST!" category when you still can.

Of course, while firmly planted in my self-righteous superiority, I would never dream of purchasing one of those nasty, hateful rags at the grocery store checkout counter. However, I must admit my own secret culpability in the vicious cycle of celebrity worship/vilification. Every month I go to Lemon Blossom Salon and Spa to get my grays covered and my hair tamed. Every time, I vow that I will use those two hours to do something useful, like write something on MacDaddy, or at the very least jot down my to-do list in my daughter's trusty Girls Rock! notebook. I'll even bring a book just in case Lady Muse decides not to visit me. But, guess what? I NEVER end up working at the salon. Instead, I do what all of the other women in the place do: I read those wretched magazines, cover to cover. When I am sitting there with brown goop dripping down my forehead and foil twisted on my tendrils, I'll guiltily devour every page of every available tabloid. I can't say I actually read them, because I don't. I view them, as one would view porn. I'll eye the latest US, People, and Star for every instance of posed red carpet photos, candid beach naughties, and even the benign celeb walk to the local coffee shop (OMG, Robert Pattinson bought a Venti Caramel Macchiato from the Vancouver Starbucks! He's SOOOOO hot!!!) I don't know what it is, but there is something comforting about seeing Jennifer Aniston pick out a wedgie while vacationing in Fiji. Call me crazy.

You can imagine what two hours of celebrity scrutinizing does to my already-fragile self-esteem. After bathing in the imagery of the Rich, Famous and Freakishly Beautiful, I'll steal a quick glance in the mirror and see Frankenstein's wife staring back at me. Today's tortuous session at Lemon Blossom will be particularly heinous, as I am sporting a dazzling case of pre-period, pizza-face breakouts and a poochy mid-section (I'm still endeavoring to release the excess poundage acquired during our recent vacation). Oh joy.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I'll fight the unquenchable desire to participate in the Celebrity JudgeFest. As I head to the salon for my monthly emotional drubbing, I am armed with Stephanie Meyers' Eclipse and my Girls Rock! notebook.

A girl can dream, can't she?


For your consideration and/or comment:

Do you ever look at tabloid magazines? How do they make you feel?


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