Grabbed the Vogue January 2024 issue from my messy pile of mail yesterday. Seriously, that stack never ends. Felt the smooth, thick cover – you know, that nice glossy paper? Flopped down on my lumpy old sofa, coffee steaming next to me.
Started flipping right from the front. Those perfume ads always hit me first. Fancy bottles, fancy names, fancy promises. Smelled the pages automatically like a weirdo. Obviously just got paper scent and maybe a hint of coffee splash from me. Scanned the table of contents like I knew what I was looking for. Didn’t really.
The Wandering Flip-Through
Got sucked into the photos first. Big, dramatic shoots. Models draped in insane fabrics on windswept beaches or fancy rooms. Flipped faster when the pages were just walls of tiny text about designers or trends I hadn’t heard about. My brain checked out. Felt heavy.
Spotted a piece talking about spring clothes already. Showed chunky heels and bright pink coats. Checked my window. Still grey, wet, cold as anything. Couldn’t picture wearing that stuff for months. Felt kinda pointless looking at it now. Who plans outfits that far ahead when it’s freezing?
The “Who ARE These People?” Moment
Hit a section full of headshots. Actors, models, musicians. Young faces mostly. Frowned at probably half of them. Went “Oh, that’s so-and-so,” maybe twice. The rest? Blank stare. Names read like random words mashed together. Felt properly old and out of touch right then. Why does everyone look 12?
The Slog to the Back
Finally made it to the beauty pages near the end. Big close-ups of eyeshadow that looked like crushed jewels or lips super shiny. Read a few blurbs about miracle creams promising impossible things. Eyeballed the prices. Laughed out loud. Yeah, right, like I’m dropping that kind of cash on a tiny jar.
Flipped the last page. Closed the mag. Felt… tired. Like I’d climbed a mountain made of glossy paper and dreams too rich for my blood. Put it back on the pile, probably won’t touch it again. Coffee was cold anyway.
