It’s desirable in society to reflect “the glass of fashion and the mold of form;” to circle with the haut monde; to be known in Paris, Beverly Hills, and Broadway as an arbiter elegantiae; to be “in vogue;” to be a snooty-looking, high-maintenance, clothes-horse. We should all try it.
Though it’s desirable in society to be stylish, as I’ve sat in various bus stations and Denny’s restaurants, I’ve noticed that not everyone is doing their best to emulate the Vanity Fair, debutante look. Why not? Well, it’s probably because not everyone reads Vogue magazine and strives to apply its fashion concepts. Surprisingly, as I recently began planning to become the epitome of style, I realized that I had never read Vogue magazine, so I took steps to fill this void in my upbringing.
Vogue Magazine costs a bit of money, but when you discover a valuable resource for advancing your life, you do whatever it takes. As one picks up a copy of Vogue Magazine and begins to read, one becomes aware that several people nearby have severe bronchitis, and one realizes that maybe it would be better to leave the hospital waiting room and go read Vogue magazine in a nearby dentist office. The next observation is that Vogue magazine contains women fashions that if actually worn might well get you arrested and in some situations stoned to death. Especially if you’re a guy. The next observation is that it’s difficult to read a magazine that’s 99% advertising. The table of contents is hidden among fifty pages of photographs of disinterested-looking women wearing $1,500 mechanic rags wrapped around their heads; $1,400 purses made of bubble wrap and gold cord; diamonds that rival those in the crown jewels; $500 perfume; red lipstick; and $1,100 negligees masquerading as dresses.
The table of contents, once located, is worthless, because it directs you to a page number in a magazine that, for the most part, contains no page numbers, and if you happen upon an actual page number accidently and begin to read a story, you find that the story lasts for one column and then is said to continue on page 267 or some other meaningless number. You’re then sent on another search through pages of advertisements for jewelry, credit cards, lipstick, perfume, hair color, and vodka, the essentials for a vogue woman.
I found that I’m not really attracted to the women displayed in Vogue, for several reasons. 1) I’m old enough to be their dad, 2) I’m married, 3) if I were single, I still wouldn’t look at Vogue magazine for inspiration, and 3) though several women in Vogue look cute and have pleasant smiles (as they advertise vodka), many are 25% dressed and look morose and sultry. Several women, and for some reason I find this unattractive, look like corpses. A few are dressed only in bed sheets, apparel that in my mind is very popular to wear in public only during house fires. There is always a picture of Christie Brinkley when she was twenty, but then they list her current age: 53. Don’t they have any current pictures?
I eventually discovered that there’s a Vogue magazine for men—Men’s Vogue, so I located a copy to see what I needed to do to become stylish and vogue. I’m not doing badly. The advertisements in Men’s Vogue indicate that to be stylish and vogue, I need to wear cologne and wear a watch and have a dazed, aloof expression on my face. I also need a nice suit, an expensive sports car, sleek-looking audio equipment, a new camera, a black cell phone, a flat-panel TV, and like vogue women—I need to drink vodka. I should also buy a bed sheet for my wife to wear.
I’m not too far out of whack. From now on, when I look at myself in the mirror each morning, I’m going to affirm to myself how in vogue I am.
I wear cologne. My mother in law gets little sample vials of expensive cologne and gives them to me for Christmas. My wife likes one named “Boss—Cologne eau de toilette,” and though I was at first wondering why I had been given Cologne something about a toilette, I like it too.
I wear a watch. It’s an Armitron that I got at Walmart for $18.00. Sometimes, like during long training seminars at work, I have a dazed, aloof expression on my face. I own a nice suit. I own four cars, and if you total the purchase prices, it’s equivalent to an expensive sports car. I own sleek-looking audio equipment, a four-year-old new camera. I have a black pager. I don’t watch TV, and I don’t drink vodka. We own bed sheets. And, looking in the mirror, just like Christie Brinkley, I’m 53.