I picked up a bridal magazine recently out of morbid curiosity, to see what they are trying to sell the unsuspecting brides of the 21st Century. The magazine was titled "BLI$$," or something to that effect.
Reading a bridal magazine, much like predicting the winner of "America's Next Top Model," is not something a straight man should ever do.
If space aliens came down from the sky and looked through a bridal magazine, they would come to the conclusion that the women of our species cannot stand upright without dramatically leaning against something for support.
They would also surmise that women's legs must each be about five feet thick, considering the amount of poofy cloth required to cover them.
The days of ads with a pretty bride posing in a pretty dress are gone, if they ever existed. Now the typical ad shows a young woman, a hand held to her head as if she has just been startled, while trying on a $3000 wedding gown, by a bull moose.
The obvious conclusion, of course, is that this is an Alaskan bridal shop.
Another ad shows a bride striking a pose before an open window with a sheen of sweat on her chest, as if this danged heat is about to drive her to jump.
Yet another has a pair of dejected-looking waifs with purposely slumped shoulders as if to express, "Yes, I am getting married today, but I am untraditional, and my new husband will need to understand that I am tired of fighting gravity."
Aliens would assume that brides are an unusually hairy and pasty-faced species, judging by the products being hyped. There is a "hydrating razor," "nude air foam" with "aerated pigments" to cover up blemishes, and another type of goo to help "unclog your pores" for the big day.
Some ads sell suits for men as well. In one, a lanky bestubbled hunk gazes into the distance grimly and grips his pinky finger as if the fate of the world depends on pinky pressure.
Or perhaps he is engaged to sweaty-woman. Perhaps his nervous gesture is purely concern for her welfare.
I imagine a whole universe in which these models scowl and slump into and out of relationships. Befoamed. Hydrated. Unclogged. And that is when I realized I had to put the magazine down and walk away.
. . .