Women's magazines

On my couch camping I have finally had time to read some of the women’s magazines a friend of mine gave me for some time ago. I don’t actually like women’s magazines, not even when I am at the hairdresser. I don’t like reading about ordinary real life people, it simply doesn’t interest me. Reading about how cancer, having kids or moving from city to countryside changed somebody’s life, what do I care? And if these women’s magazines have an article about a famous person, the whole article is about how this famous and extraordinary person in fact is very ordinary just like everybody else. Why on earth do they want to give this impression to everybody?

No, the only women’s magazine I like is Madame Figaro. Madame Figaro is about extraordinary women; women who have eight kids, two storey apartment in the 16.th arrondissement in Paris, a country house in Normandy and skiing cottage in Chamonix. These women are beautiful, elegant, strong and volunteer fundraisers for charity projects. All this while they work as rocket scientists or neurosurgeons.

These are the kind of real life women I love to read about. The less successful ones, the offers of miserable love and diseases, they belong to my world of fiction; Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Flaubert’s Emma Bovary, Solohov’s Natalya, Kundera’s Tereza, Hemingway’s Maria, Steinbeck’s Rose or Fitzgerald’s Nicole. Great reading, but just as long as they stay fiction.