A new magazine hit the newsstands last week. A bright beacon of hope for trillions of Australian women aged 50 and above, hungry marketing analysts and (briefly) a hungry late-50s female writer of an optimistic bent.
Yours, it’s called, dear readership, and you’re welcome to it, because it sure as hell ain’t Mine, or Anyone Else’s I know.
Yours is the Best & Less of women’s magazines – a place where yea who enter should expect to abandon all hope.
It is the cultural equivalent of speaking slowly and loudly to the elderly, the infirm and the foreigners.
It is the design lovechild of a Reliant Robin and a life-size, creepy ‘baby’ doll that grips your finger.
And if, as has been intimated, it is targeted at us 50-plus female ‘powerhouse purchasers’ (I should live so long…), then it seems to have mislaid its bifocals while taking aim, dear.
Granted, as with every clichéd aunty, it means well: the call to community (with prizes); the jubilant affirmation beside Every Celebrity’s Name of Their Age, no matter where they are (The Bush), or what they’re doing (Sticking Acupuncture Needles into Dachsunds), wearing (Harsh Blue) or modelling (The New Bob).
The New Bob. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?
Much like The Old Bob – still crap if you have curly hair.
There’s Short Fiction – so short, that no one – from the Empowered, Connected 50-Somethings, to the Feisty, Mountain-Climbing 80-Year-Olds – reading it need fear dying before they get to the end.
And among the Team of Experts is a Vet.
Because, in the not-too-distant future, voluntary euthanasia for humans will be legalised.
The Longevity Expert would be hoping not, I’m guessing.
Anyhoo, what I Just Don’t Get (apart from why they haven’t euthanised whoever chose that heinous comic typeface) is why we, being such f**king powerhouse purchasers and all, would spend our stylish, plucky, glass-ceiling-shattering, hard-earned dosh on Yours when we can buy Anything Else.