U is for Uninformed
Most of the time while standing in line at the drugstore or the grocery store I am thinking about what to have for dinner, or what to knit next, or whether my 401k will ever rise again — I suppose I should be glad still to have one, even if it seems I am contributing to it so that it will have money to lose — but now and then I snap out of my mundane daze long enough to notice the scandal sheets conveniently placed next to the cash registers.
More specifically, I notice that I haven't a clue who any of these people are. All right, I know who Michael J. Fox is, and Miley, only because I have a 12-year-old daughter, and I think that might be Oprah, whom I do more or less recognize after seeing her picture regularly for 20-odd years, although I've never watched her show. But the rest of them, I may or may not have heard their names or be vaguely aware that they sing or act or something like that, although what exactly I couldn't tell you. I haven't the dimmest notion who Heidi and Spencer are, or what details US Weekly proposes to reveal, or why I should care. My explanation for this has always been that I have enough trouble keeping track of my own affairs without interesting myself in other people's, but clearly I am deficient in this area. To be sure, my affairs center on meal planning and low finance, while theirs presumably involve, well, affairs; I still prefer the charms of a boring existence.
When it comes to self-beautification, the other major topic addressed by this literature, I do no better. I wash my hair daily with shampoo readily available in the very same store (aisle 3), and I hope that makes it healthy and shiny enough to pass muster, although I don't quite fathom how dead cells can be said to be healthy. Never once in my (mumble) years have I had my nails done. I have no desire to glam up my life (see above: boring is good), and there's no way on this planet you're getting me to take a naked quiz.
You'll just have to live with me with my clothes on. Can we talk about knitting?