Magazine

For someone who claims to be extremely stylish, with an employment in the fashion mecca to boot, I seriously avoid fashion magazines. Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, Preview, Mega, Seventeen and other locally published magazines make me self-image sick.

These magazines  leave me with a stabbing heartache and a lump in my throat. I always feel less important, insecure and incompetent. The sustainable world which I built around myself crumbles in the face of a perfect cosmos which revolves around the material heavy media.

Their campaign for female emancipation have reached me in a different context. In my parallel universe, I make my own rules, I am the best, I am the only one who feels the pea under twelve mattresses, and as Alana Davis puts it, I am whom everyone harbors a secret hatred.

Fashion magazines tell me I’m not who I think I am, because if I were indeed, I should be on the cover, not her. Their  success and real-life articles are too good to be true. If  it were based on real women, why haven’t I met anyone who has been surveyed, or interviewed for any of their sources. Why? I am a real woman, I live in the real world and I have real people friends. Why do their self-help articles seem impossible for someone who don’t know anyone above middle-class.

In Wonder Spot, Melissa Banks describes a life of not fitting anywhere. That is precisely where the local media has put me, nowhere in the face of the glamorous world.

Christmas costume wars

Our company Christmas party had a ‘masquerade’ theme. In order for me to redeem my last year’s boo-hoo–because I mindlessly dressed myself as Gwen Stefani and ended up looking like a futuristic tranny-granny–I did everything in my power to look smashingly beautiful.

In fact, my adrenalin was the only thing keeping me together until my whole outfit was completed. I say so, because the day I decided everything from head to foot was ready, I got sick. It made me think that my energy and sugar levels have probably plummeted when my brain sent signals to the rest of me that all is well in the costume department.

I went as a vintage princess a la western. Donned knee-high leather boots, velvet cowgirl skirt, leather corset, mismatched vintage accessories, tiara and my harlequin mask.

My goal was a major success. Ninety-nine percent of my pictures were all pleasant. I redeemed myself! Yes!

It did not hurt so much that I was not crowned the best dressed that night, though, I expected that such would totally kill my vanity.

yes, I was a tranny-granny gwen

redeemed by the vintage princess