No More Cosmo for Me!
by Lynda
Mar 5, 2007
"UNHAPPY WITH YOUR LOVE LIFE? THESE SIMPLE STEPS WILL BRING YOU
HAPPINESS!"
The article in Cosmo sucked me while in waiting in the grocery
store line.
Step one: Make a list of everything you want in a lover.
Well there you go; I was ruined before the Catholic mother ahead of me
paid for three carts of groceries. Everything I want? Try finding that
after forty! After forty every single man is damaged goods. No matter
how good he looks, no matter what kind of car he drives, no matter how
much money he has, somebody, somewhere is sick of his shit. He’s got
issues with his ex, issues with his sexuality, issues with his psyche.
He gave so damn much in his marriage he just wants someone to give and
give to him. He still hurts so much from what that bitch did, he holds
all women responsible - with a smile. He’s got a flabby ass and is in
desperate need of a nut-tuck. He refused that vasectomy for 20 years of
marriage and by damn he’s not going to do it now. He thinks it’s okay to
let himself go a little - but won’t be seen with anybody carrying an
extra 5 lbs. It’s all too real.
Everything I want? How about ONE thing I want?
But back to the simple steps: I want him to smell like magic. I want him to love me when I’m
raggedy, love me when I’m bloated, love me when I bitch. I want him to
have a six pack - not a pony keg. I want to wrap my legs around his ass as
many times a day as I like. I want him to love my anatomy like a
lesbian. I want him to look deeply into me when he’s inside of me. I
want to be soul-fucked sometimes; and not just sport-fucked. I want to
get drunk and make out like teenagers. I want him to take me on dates;
out to a field under the stars and drink beer and kiss in the back of a
truck, take me to the opera, to the ballet, to the rodeo, and to the
movies. I want to cook for him and watch him eat. I want to get shivers
when he kisses me, and I don’t ever want them to stop. I want him to tell
me straight up when he’s pissed at me, and forgive me in exchange for a
blow-job no matter how awful I’ve been. Everything I want? I want
goddamn everything; that’s what.
Step two is worse: Make a list of every place you might find someone with
the qualities on your list.
How about - nowhere? He doesn’t exist. No matter who he is, he won’t be more than 3 of these things and having
made the list, I will feel cheated - as if I’m settling.
Step three: Find him, commit, and live happily ever after.
What the shit? After all is said and done, the only thing I can commit to is the strength to never
look at the covers of those magazines in the grocery aisle. From now on,
I’ll stick to Hillary’s alien lover, the 7 year old who gave birth to
quintuplets and the pope having been kidnapped by a group of radical
Jews. It’s just too sad for women over forty. Why hasn’t Helen Gurley’s
rag grown up with us? Once this magazine liberated us. What the hell
happened?
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