More magazine and me

I am quite upset by today’s news that More magazine closed down. I used to read it as a young teenager drinking a bottle of Yahoo chocolate milk out of a straw thinking I was so cosmopolitan and sophisticated. I knew that by the time I reached the ages of those vox-popped women I’d be a glamorous go-getting woman of the world. Why on earth would I not have it all together? What could possibly stop me parading round town like a Spice Girl or Kate Adie?

I remember they used to speak mainly to women in their early 20s, but on the odd occasion they would talk to a woman over 30, I would react with utter horror. Why have they got an old granny talking about sex? I would wonder whilst working out how one would avoid a neck injury by performing the latest position of the fortnight.

Well much to my chagrin, I am now that granny. I also now have a teenage sister, and though she is more into Kerrang than More, still looks at me with the same kind of distain I used to look at those women.

Now, from the other side of the looking glass, I am painfully aware that I do not have it all together like I thought I would. Nowhere close in fact and I can say it is utterly terrifying. I could blame a certain daily newspaper, it’s ‘sidebar of shame’ and associated unfair expectations of women.

However, the reality is more straightforward. It is my own expectations of where I thought my life would be that really upsets me. I make lists, I like deadlines, I am five minutes early so I’m never caught on the hop, I put my clothes out for work the night before and if i’m really organised my cereal bowl and mug for breakfast too.

These are not traits I am proud of, in fact they are things I am actively working on resolving – life is far too short to lay out breakfast dishes in advance – but I say this because like many of us, I am my own worst enemy. I was told recently that I get in my own way. This is absolutely true and has been since reading copies of More and plotting out my life to be like one of those women in the vox-pops who told tales of their boyfriends’ romantic Valentines gestures and of how much they earned by the time they were 25.

I think about those women now who seemed to me to have it all. At the time, I’ll bet a jump into the pages would have seen those women chewing themselves up with angst, self-doubt and stress about some or all areas in their lives that I thought must be so perfect. If only they knew how much they inspired me just by being themselves, maybe they wouldn’t have got in their own way as much as I am sure with my grown-up knowledge they would have done.

It’s like that new Dove advert where people are shown themselves through others eyes. I was astounded by how much plainer women described themselves in relation to how they really looked. It inspired me to stop getting in my own way, ease up on myself a bit, and in honour of the demise of More, a much loved teenage friend, be a better and stronger inspiration to my younger sister, whether she wants it (or notices) or not.