Covetworthy

It’s September 15 and I have finally gotten through all my September fashion mags. Heav. Ennnn. Advertising dollars are down so I expected them to be a little SlimFast this year. (Like the Sunday NY Times, which is damn near as skinny as US Weekly right now.) But to my joy and surprise, they were as swollen and voluptuous as ever, all the better for me to dive into one of my favorite autumn pasttimes!

See, I have this ritual. I stack all the magazines in order of reverse relevance. The top of this pile is the least of the bunch, the non-essentials, the take ‘ems or leave ‘ems. Kind of like the step-cousins you get seated next to at weddings. They offer mild amusement at best, but no substance. Once seen, quickly forgotten, never again referenced. Sorry, People Style Watch, that means YOU. (And, ummm, how did you get my address in the first place?)

Next up are the Fluffy but Fabulous mags, like a gaggle of giggly cousins that are always available for a good laugh and a good dish. Lucky, you make me nostalgic for when I spent Saturdays flitting from shop to shop and every nail hut, bookstore and Tasti D-Lite in between. Ah, InStyle, the hours I spent pilfering those sticky tabs from Lucky to adorn your pages. And, W, all rich bitch and insidery, bragging about your polo matches and Hamptons weekends. What-evah. I still love you, even though you try just a little too hard to make me like you.

Then the ubercool Big Sisters, the ones that serve up you-need-to-know-this journalism with you-know-you-want-this photo spreads. Essence. Vanity Fair. And I’m forgetting one… Oh, O.

And at long last, after I’ve devoured and tabbed and dog-eared and discarded, I have finally, blissfully, reached the bottom of the heap, which is actually the creme de la creme. Vogue, the well-meaning (and original Mean Girl) grand dame who sits so high and deigns to look so low. She doles out her advice, her suggestions, her proclamations, and yes, her withering disapproval. My loyalty to Vogue is rooted in tradition: I kiss La Dona’s ring because I always have. Sitting at her side are Elle and Harper’s BAZAAR, the benevolent favorite aunties to whom I am wholly besotted. They take Mama Vogue’s hardness and soften her edges, dispensing trade secrets with nods and winks, tongues firmly planted in cheeks; all the while, expecting, encouraging me even, to use my inner compass and direct my own style path.

I know this post probably bores the patterned leggings off some of you, and I’m fine with that. I’m too engrossed with the family to notice.