By Marla Boone
The tiny convolute in my brain that tries to control irony is very unhappy with me right now. Even though on some higher level I know what I’m about to write is wrong on several levels, I don’t seem to be able to help myself. The tiny convolute thinks not being able to help myself is a terrible precedent to set. Luckily, it’s not the boss of me.
For the second time in my life, I am going to reference something I saw in the Wall Street Journal. Today I am citing the WSJ magazine, not the WSJ newspaper and by citing I mean making fun of the clothes the magazine features. It’s a stretch here, but I’m guess the WSJ magazine runs page after page of ads for extremely expensive clothing because the editors sense a target audience out there in its readership. Let us hope that target audience is somewhat sight impaired because these clothes, and I don’t mean this bad, are hideous. I was going to use a word more descriptive than hideous but my neighbor Maddie doesn’t like it when people are judgy. This is where the irony comes in. My commenting on how someone else dresses easily makes the leap from kind of silly to outright ridiculous.
I wouldn’t even have looked at the magazine but I was waiting for someone and the boredom overtook my better judgment. The cover featured a photograph of a beautiful/not beautiful woman draped in jewelry. She was beautiful in the way very wealthy people seem to be, with pouty lips and chiseled cheekbones and a polo field at her house. She was not beautiful in the way people with really awful, out-of-proportion, gravity-defying chest-centric plastic surgery (if you get my meaning) are not