I have an unnatural love of glossy magazines; in a normal month I read (in addition to the obvious intellectually stimulating sorts) British GQ, a somewhat random mix of Hello and Ok!, most of the newspaper Saturday magazines, whichever other newspaper inserts have free movies I want to see, and every single issue of Now. In fact, I am more aware of the magazine publishing schedule than, say, which day the trash goes out.
This is a habit I’m sure that I have in common with large portions of the population, though perhaps for different reasons. Some people might be truly interested in the (generally boring) celebrity gossip, or the views of Jade Goody, or the latest news about fashion/food/drink. Not me; no, I read them because I am trying to assimilate in a new country.
Perhaps the glossies aren’t the best way to understand life in the UK?
For instance, this morning I read an article by a woman who was celibate for lack of opportunity for over twelve years. The other day I perused a rant (written by a man) about how normal women don’t put out. These magazines offer, in addition to what would seem completely extraneous directives on items to purchase (nobody, and I mean nobody, should ever consider spending several hundred pounds on a handbag – especially not an ugly one), extensive advice about sex. Particularly in GQ, this advice seems to assume that the average reader is inept to the point of imbecility.
Now, I am aware that my life and social scene is not exactly normal. But can it possibly be that bad out there in the larger world? Do people honestly have such terrifically awful trouble finding a partner, and then figuring out what to do with said love object?
I can’t fathom, and remember, I’m the one with a mutilated body and dissociative brain. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, I have no interest in the banalities of conversational conventions, and I do not flirt. But even so, my only romantic problem has been shedding whichever person I no longer liked. In fact, since age sixteen I have never been single, not even for an afternoon. For large swaths of time I’ve maintained demented and definitely inappropriate liaisons (Byron being one good example, given that when we got together I was married to someone I had misplaced and did not wish to find a replacement).
I am of course a perfectionist; if I’m going to do something, it will be done well or not at all. This definitely extends to all physical relationships; I would never settle for less than I deserve. I’m both arrogant and damaged enough to presume an extreme form of entitlement, in which physical pleasure is a mandatory part of existence.
In this I’m fully in line with most of my peers, a hedonistic crew of people who ravage around the countryside having adventures. Even those who enjoy cozy domesticity are certainly not in need of Dear Abby style sex tips.
When my friends run into trouble with their love lives, it generally takes the form of stalkers, or starfuckers, or the consequences of dating more than one person at a time. If they’re single it is for some random political reason, or obscure spiritual beliefs, or because they are raising young kids (one should never underestimate the work this requires), not because they can’t get a date. Not because they’re incompetent. Given that a large percentage of people in my acquaintance have survived physical abuse, these points are particularly notable.
Now, I know that there are lots of people who have trouble finding what they perceive as true love or worthy partners. This is also something I do not understand, given that the fairies did not gift me with beauty, style, social skills, money, or any of the other qualities that make a person desirable.
I’m wholly invented, from scratch – what I project to the world is what I choose to show. The people I allow in my life are similarly products not of nature but of hard work. Byron has always been fairly luscious, but the ladies set their caps for him more often now that he has a prestigious job. I liked him just fine when he lived in a van.
To reverse the example: he took a hankering for me when I was a poorly dressed bureaucrat who never talked about anything more scintillating than the fiscal policy implications of implementing the ADA. The life we lead now, in every detail, was chosen with deliberation – and achieved by dint of hard labor. If either of us had been inclined to wait for a perfect partner, we would still be sitting in cafes in downtown Olympia Washington.
But again, this does not in any way mean that I compromised my (lofty, eccentric, and unfair) standards to be in a relationship. I just found someone with sympathetic views, who wanted to help raise my kids. Everything else followed the decision to build the sort of life we both wanted. No part of the past fifteen years has been easy, but if you let go of the idea that it should be, life can often be wild, strange, and scandalously fun.
I started this rumination with magazines, and should bring the point back around. I guess that I have to wonder if people would have better relationships, hotter sex, and more intense lives in every possible way if they spent less time reading about the latest trends in lip gloss and more time having adventures.
Though obviously I could be wrong, and I have no inclination to stop reading magazines.