How I learned to love the frump

So at some point in the recent past, I crossed the thin (and apparently fucking invisible) line that divides hip 20-something moms from frustrated, sex-deprived housewives.

And goddamit, I’m not happy about it.

Today, two issues of Redbook mysteriously appeared in my mailbox. At first I was all, “Our ninja mailman must be on vacation. These obviously belong to someone else.”  And by someone else, I mean someone old. But then there it was, in black and white:

This picture, in retrospect, is not very helpful as a visual aid because I had to black out 3/4 of it.

Honestly, I thought I’d have to be dragged (and/or drugged) kicking and screaming across this mythical line. I’m not ready to admit I’m getting older. And for Christ’s sake, 26 is not that old. I mean, come on. The very first advertisement in in February issue is for a wrinkle cream.

I don’t have wrinkles, assholes. I still get pimples, for Christ’s sake.

The March issue is no better. The page opposite the Table of Contents features Ellen DeGeneres for CoverGirl Simply Ageless Firming Effects Makeup. While I love me some good lesbian sass, I don’t need a product to diminish fine lines and wrinkles. Same story on page 91.  Page 81 mentions the words ‘postmenopausal’ and ‘osteoporosis’ in the same sentence.

I’m not part of this magazine’s demographic. Really.


But some of the articles are good. Bordering on entertaining, really. Though Red and I need no help in the bedroom acrobatics department (hello, overshare!) the ‘Sex Can Fix It!’ article made some good points.

My perennial favorite, “When in doubt, flash your tits to shut him up” didn’t make the list. Obviously these broads don’t know how to fight dirty.

None of this is really witty or relevant, I know. I guess I’m just really surprised that I now fall into a category populated mostly by people who own minivans–though I suspect most of them only drive those behemoth vehicles so they don’t have to constantly scream, “So HELP ME GOD, if I have to tell you one more time to stop biting your sister, I’ll wire your mouth shut!” over their shoulder on the way to soccer practice.

Maybe I should just say to hell with it and embrace my inner frump. The magazines were free, and it’s not like I haven’t already read them cover to cover. For research, you know.


Edit: Um. Oh, shit. Whoopsie. So when these puppies hit the mailbox, I thought perhaps a supercomputer in Batman’s Fortress of Solitude (or whatever) arbitrarily decided that I since I had recently googled ‘public preschools’ and ‘VW Force commercial’ I deserved a few free issues of Frustrated Suburban Housewife Monthly. Turns out that I… um… ordered them myself. When I was drunk. Because there was an attractive little box on that said FREE SHIT! So of course I did.

Apparently, drunk me thinks with the beer-goggled brain of a person ten years older than sober me. Guess it’s time to start checking in to where I can buy some mom jeans.


(Incidentally, have you seen the VW Force commercial? It’s fucking awesome.)



About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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