Some people find it strange that I don’t really read women’s magazines. It’s a painful memory my precious but I remember with clarity the day I decided to divorce them and the cocktail one in particular. (I had already outgrown the much loved position of the fortnight in More and felt like a proper woman when reading Cosmo)
Typically it relates to a dreadlocked basketball player with hazel eyes and a million dollar smile. Well, he was a student so more a Nandos voucher smile but whatever, I was hooked. I did the usual thing of dragging my bookish friends down to the basketball courts for a glimpse of this butterscotch Adonis. Cosmo was right and perseverance did pay off because after months of hanging around they finally took pity and included us into their circle.
Oh the day dreams I had about this boy! With Love and Basketball being one of my favourite films it wasn’t difficult. I would be in heels and a tennis skirt, him in his cute, too long shorts. Sorry my precious but my imagination just couldn’t stretch to me in trainers.
I’m going to conveniently gloss over my own attempt at joining the women’s team in which they politely told me that long nails and a general disinterest in scoring (on the court) were not conducive to the sport. Who were they to judge?
Reading my magazines religiously they advised me to tell him about my feelings. This wasn’t a course of action I warmed to but, as a disciple I felt that the army of women who wrote these magazines knew much more than I did about love……and make up.
Then the magazine gods answered my prayers. A chance conversation and some feminine wiles had him back at my flat! I said a silent prayer to the goddess of agony aunts, ran my fingers through my hair and told him how I felt. He stared at me with those hazel eyes the whole time, drinking in everything I said and moved closer. I couldn’t believe that all of those years of reading about other people’s problems was about to pay off!
As he came closer I prepared myself for the inevitable kiss and half closed my eyes. Like Aerosmith I didn’t want to miss a thing. But then he reeled in horror and fell sideways, knocking over my pile of magazines in an attempt to escape me.
Turn out my time would have been better spent investigating my target. HIS type was short, gamine and entirely too delicate to ever grace a basketball court. Oh and that an escaped hair braid dangling from my sexy top was enough to send him tripping but, not into my arms . Apparently he wasn’t the brightest spark and had always thought it was my real hair?
So by all means read the magazines my precious but throw them away and do your own research so as not to trip over them at a critical moment.
