I’ve noticed a certain women’s magazine believes there’s only one season.
If you flip through a Cosmo in September, it will show you how to keep your beachy waves long after the beach is closed. December’s issue provides tips on faking a fun, sexy bronze glow through winter and taking your man on fun, sexy summer-themed dates to get through the frightening dark months ahead. In February, while you wrestle the pages through your mittens, the fashion section fills with summer’s fun, sexy new looks. When June finally arrives, it’s impossible to find a coherent headline on the cover between giant yellow and orange words: FUN SEXY SUMMER! SUN AND SEX AND SEA SHELLS! MELANOMA AND ALSO SEX!
Someone should probably let them know about the existence of autumn, winter, and spring. I’d do it, but they think I died in a horrible waxing accident and I’m loathe to correct them.
I want you to know that as I’m writing this post, my orange argyle sock is falling into my Converse, I have a serious case of Helena Bonham Carter hair going on, and a brief foray into the sun (I hate the sun) has left me freckled. I am not feeling too sexy for Milan, New York, Japan, or even a Walmart in Kansas.