I know the entire glossy women's media and associated advertising industry wants me to find fault with my own body, but I'm afraid I genuinely like it.
Actually, I more than like my own body. I *really* like it. I really like my legs and my arse and my breasts and my tummy and my arms and my back and my neck and my feet and all the rest of it. I like my wrinkles and my scars and my stretch marks and my moles. There isn't anything about my body I would change.
(Except maybe I could be a bit taller, but only so I could kiss the lovely Mr BC without having to stand on tiptoes.)
So I'm afraid I'm not going to buy your anti-ageing creams or go to your gyms or frequent your cosmetic surgeons or subject myself to your diets. And while we're at it, I'm not going to buy any of your stupid clothes that you designed for tall skeletal women, or your handbags that cost more than a month's rent.
When there's a glossy women's magazine about Pictish archaeology, steampunk literature and American indie-pop, then I'll buy it.
(Can you tell I've been reading Observer Woman Makes Me Spit?)
UPDATE: It's not just me, either: Clair feels the same, and so does Belle de Jure. I love the Observer, but the whole point of OWM completely eludes me. Does the paper realise that it's insulting its female readers to the extent that a fair few seem to have stopped buying it on the days the OWM comes out? If it's going to insist on foisting the vacuous trash that is OWM upon its female readers, why doesn't it go all the way and bring out a monthly Observer Lads supplement, full of lager ads and cars and scantily clad birds? Grrr.