Thought so. You probably didn't even realize Grace and I were besties, and while technically we never met, my friend did take a spin class with her once, so whatever. Details.
Anyhoo, Grace's email told an engaging little tale about what made her first fall in love with Vogue. Here's a snippet of Grace's heartwarming story:
Vogue also got me dreaming of becoming a model. There was one issue, in 1958, that announced a model contest, with a picture of a beautiful model, Nena von Schlebrugge (Uma Thurman's mother) who was photographer Norman Parkinson's favorite. On the strength of that, I decided to go to London and take a chance. I entered the competition and won, and, well, the rest is history.
After sharing her story, Grace asked me (me!!!) to share my story of falling in love with Anna Wintour's shiny fashion bible. She wonders how Vogue became "apart [sic] of your life." Meaning a part of MY—not YOUR—life. She said if they like my story enough they'll even print it in the pages of the fashion bible! No mention of any payment, but money is so last year anyway. It got me to thinking about what my Vogue story might be . . . .
I've subscribed to Vogue on and off throughout my life. Right now I'm in the midst of an extended off period, but that could change. I don't remember my first issue, but I do recall how I used to take home the stripped returns of the foreign Vogues from the bookstore I managed. Back then, Italian Vogue was my favorite. Today I have no frame of reference because I no longer get them for free and I'm not about to shell out twenty bucks for a magazine, no matter how pretty the pictures.
When I worked briefly at Conde Nast it came to my attention that you could immediately tell the Vogue girls from the rest of the Conde-peasants. Anna's girls were taller and prettier than other magazine staffers, but most of all, uniformly pin thin. We're talking the kind of skinny where you wonder how their scrawny necks can even support their lovely skulls.
Which is why my Vogue memory can't be narrowed down to just one moment. It's more than a fleeting second, it's their yearly "shape" issue. It's no secret that Anna Wintour hates the fatties. And to her carb-starved brain, a porker is any broad who dares fall above a size six or so. Maybe I'm being unfair and her range of acceptance runs up to an eight, but I don't think so. I'm pretty sure a size six is pushing it in her world.
You just know having to cater to the lardasses once a year just kills her. Murders her soul. Grievously insults her sensibilities. Which is why while there are endless suggestions for how to dress if you're tall and thin (gee, that's tough), petite and thin (ditto), athletically built (uh, that's called having muscle tone), while the "fat" section is as stingy as Anna's snack plate, and inevitably modeled by a pretty girl who's maybe a size 10. Size 10 is not plus-sized, despite the stores in my neighborhood labeling an 8/10 as XL. (Note to those stores—kiss my pudgy white booty.)
Yeah, I know Anna had Beth Ditto in there once, but she's a celeb so she doesn't count, though I'm sure Anna was properly skeeved. After all, this is a woman who told Oprah—Oprah!!!—that she had to drop some pounds before she'd let her on the cover.
The aptly named Anna's way of defending her fatphobia in the shape ish is to feature an otherwise teeny-tiny type who went and got herself knocked up. Anna, pregnancy is an extremely temporary condition; not a body type! You just know she sees those pages, smiles her thin-lipped Grinch smile and considers her good deed for the year done and done-er.
So, Grace, I guess my "Vogue story," is one that doesn't end very well because even if I could afford the clothes in your magazine (I can't), I'd never fit into them. And frankly, I'm a little put off by your boss's extremely narrow definition of beauty. Perhaps she could learn a lesson from that sage philosopher, Heidi Montag, who so wisely stated, real beauty comes from within.