A recent report noted women's magazines have experienced a drop in readership. No kidding. Those editors don't
have a clue as to what a real woman's life is like. That's why they carry articles like, "How to Get Your Man to Think About Sex." Wait a minute! Hold the presses! Is there really a man out there somewhere who doesn't
think about sex? I thought the problem was how to get your man NOT to think about sex. Women don't need to know how to turn a man on. Instead what they need are articles covering issues important to their daily
lives. Things like: "How To Sleep Through the Night Without Having to Pee 100 Times." Or maybe, "What to Do If He Hogs the Bed."
Second only to the preoccupation with our sex lives in these magazines are the
"simple" diet plans, containing nine pages of menus with ingredients like unsweetened coconut chips, fresh cilantro and prawns. Get real, guys. I'm looking for simple here. I'm thinking cottage cheese and Slim Fast and
you're wanting me to sauté shrimp with baby ears of corn. My kids think shredded wheat's exotic. My crowd wouldn't touch prawns with a pool cue.
Or – failing your ability to simplify – how about a diet I could really
stick with, like the "Eat All the Fudge You Want Diet Plan?" And to heck with carbohydrate or protein diets. Let's have an "all-dessert diet" or a "crunchy-salty junk food diet." Or at least one that recognizes
kettle-cooked potato chips as a vital part of the food pyramid.
These magazines show me food I couldn't make if the Iron Chef was standing next to me handing me the ingredients. Then, to complete my inferiority
complex, they bombard me with female role models like Jennifer Anniston and other women who wear size twos, have personal trainers and their own chefs. Why? Because they don't understand some of us make our own beds,
brush our own teeth and drive our own aging minivans.
And don't forget the fashion pages featuring stiletto heels with four-inch long toes and straps that go to the thigh, elegantly paired with micro minis
pitched three inches below the navel, and a scrap of a shirt. Just the thing to wear to open house at school!
Get this, big time New York editors – real women worry about what they'll do if the minivan gives out
before it's paid off, find creative ways to fix chicken, wear comfortable clothing and don't spend a lot of time with their private Pilates coach because, well, for one thing, we're not really all that darned sure how
you pronounce Pilates, much less do it.
The reason your circulation keeps dropping is that you haven't managed to figure out we're on a different page yet – and that's OK. Really. We can find better things to do with
our time than read how Jen keeps Brad happy or how Julia finds the strength to face her day or which celebrity has adopted a baby because she's too self-involved to endure pregnancy. We can live without your
cookie-cutter articles, all written in the same smug, "We know what's best for you" tone of voice. Like politicians, you've gone and forgotten the people you're supposed to serve – average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill
women like me. But you've also neglected to remember one very important thing:
This street travels both ways.
