Gullible's Travels, or, Why I'm Reading About Lip Gloss

I hate magazines. Okay, not all magazines. I just hate the kind you find in every waiting room in the world -- the kind with a cover picturing a cake containing 27 grams of saturated fat per serving and "Get Slim Fast!" in large letters. I'm at a point in my life where these topics -- diets and what to eat when you want to cheat on them -- bore me.

And when I am reminded that I, in a moment of weakness and utter gullibility, subscribed to that exact kind of magazine over a year ago because the woman selling them said her father was also the father of her twin boys, then I am likely to be downright disgusted with said magazine every month when it arrives.

Now, in all fairness, the woman who came to my door probably was a survivor of incest. Whatever her background, she certainly deserved a break. She had her sales pitch down. I'm not sure if she actually ever wrote out the whole thing complete with bracketed stage directions such as [pause for lip quiver] or [weep uncontrollably until customer offers a tissue], but I'd bet money it was planned in some form. I hate to turn people away when they are in need. Especially people who have mothered their fathers' children. Especially when they are really good at guilt trips. So I said I would buy one magazine I didn't want. Unfortunately, buying just one wasn't an option because of something or other I couldn't understand through the cracking voice and the sniffling into the tissue I had provided. And that's how I subscribed to two, the second of which was for my children . . . and might be appropriate for them in about six years. I think I'll just save them in a box until 2012. If I'm lucky, maybe the kids will want the clothes and shoes featured in the magazine; by that time, they should be far less expensive than whatever is in style.

But back to the actual purchase of the magazines. I paid entirely too much for them because of some stupid survivors-of-incest-selling-overpriced-crappy-magazines-door-to-door state fee. After the lady left with my check, I scoured the Internet for the name of the organization for which she was selling. There was no such organization. I did, however, find much about these door-to-door magazine salespeople. The consensus is that they are being exploited by whatever company it is that hires them. Wise people throughout Cyberspace warned, "DO NOT BUY!" Yet, trying to be kind, I had bought and helped perpetuate a system that was taking advantage of the poor. So, well, yea me.

Nearly a year later, I had forgotten about the magazines, and if I had in fact thought of them, I would have been glad they hadn't arrived; I didn't want to profit in the least (and it is, believe me, the least) from someone else's life of near-slavery. When they arrived last month, it took me a moment to remember, and then it all came back to me -- the lip quivering, the hand to the chest, the sobbing and the frequent calling out to Jesus.

So, saddled with the reminder of my gullibility and middle-class whatever-ity (you know, the thing that makes you do things against your better judgment because you feel guilty for having what you have even though there are lots and lots of people who have a lot more than you have), I use my new magazine for toilet reading.

It's okay for the crapper. So far I've learned that walking is not beneficial in any way unless it really hurts and you move your arms in such a way that your thumb makes some kind of arc in the air at the level of something or other. And I've learned that even though I answered all "nos" on the bipolar questionnaire, I should still, just to be safe, share the results with my doctor. And I've learned that an innocent phrase like "what to toss in your salad" makes me a little uncomfortable these days. I've learned that the "grills for every budget" all cost at least three times what we paid for our grill last week. I've learned that I am in the minority when I say that I would rather visit the dentist than go on a diet, because three out of four women would rather do just the opposite. And who the hell cares?

But it's my fault I'm reading this stuff. Eh, too bad it's not flushable.