Survey Says ...

As I've written about before, I subscribe to too many magazines. I can't help myself. And as I write this, I'm realizing that all my hideous vices are spilling out of me and onto the pages of my blog for all to gape at. Yes, yes, I watch chick flicks and read too many magazines. The shame of it all. I could be spending that time doing something much more productive, like, as Tom Hanks would say in You've Got Mail, "rolling bandages for Bosnian refugees." My God, even my similies are coming from chick flicks now. They're insidious, those 90-minute doses of fluff. They burrow into my brain like those creepy bugs in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Ah, that's better. Star Trek II is decidedly un-chick flick-ish, except for a girl with a professed crush on Ricardo Montalban. (I just looked at the IMDb entry for the movie. Hey, I never knew Khan's full name was Khan Noonien Singh. I always thought Khan was his last name. Ah, crap. It kinda takes some of the caché away from this movie, to know that when Kirk is screaming, "Khan!," he's screaming on a first-name basis. Good thing Khan's name wasn't, like, Lenny. "Lenny!" Try it. It's not the same.)

Wow. That was not where this post was originally going, at all.

My point was that Vogue is among the many magazines I get. (Right now, my friends are either doubled over laughing or staring blankly at their screens asking, "Why?") I am no fashion plate. I think fashiony fashion is stupid. It's often ugly and it's insanely overpriced. Yes, Kelley, the Ralph Lauren goat-suede pants might look fabulous on you, but it's ludicrous to spend $1,800 on an article of clothing. Especially when you know that, next season, goat suede is going to be so embarrassingly passé. (Note: Kelley did not actually buy the goat-suede pants, because Kelley is a smart woman.)

I get Vogue for two reasons: 1) Because I am relatively powerless to resist a magazine offer ("We'll send you 1,000 issues for only 12 cents!"), and 2) Because even though I am a smart person, I foolishly believe that my fashion handicap can be overcome by the mere act of looking at ridiculously posed, overly airbrushed photographs of Tootsie Pops wearing lipstick.

As a Vogue subscriber, then (OK, OK, fine, yes, I also receive Lucky. It was a 2-for offer. Yes, a magazine about shopping is the epitome of vapidity and capitalism and all that is wrong with this world. But there are stickers!), I was recently tapped, via e-mail, to participate in a Vogue survey.

Clearly, if Anna Wintour ever saw my closet, she'd immediately tear the latest issue out of my hands and being to weep, but if The Staff at Vogue really wanted my opinion, who was I to deprive them?

So I clicked the link and began the survey.

First, I was asked to reveal my age: 37.

Next, I was asked if I was male or female: Female.

Next, I was asked if I am a smoker: No.

"Thank you!"

Seriously? That's it? That's all Vogue wanted to know? Of course not. But clearly, I do not fit into the Vogue demographic.

Clearly, I am too old and too much a fan of my lungs for The Staff at Vogue to care any further about what I have to say.

Anna!