Guilty Pleasure
My guilty pleasures are gossip magazines. I love stories about models and actresses and model actresses and their daughters and illegitimate children. And the nastier the reporting, the better. I find out who has a big bum and who has drug problems, who wore the worst dress at the gala and who was cheated on by whom.
In between, I wander through the world of fashion trends and recipes and fitness programmes and problem areas. The purest safari of the baser instincts. My mother disapproved of the consumption of gossip magazines. She didn't forbid it, but she expressed her opinion with minimal facial expressions and maximum clarity. But as much as I was aware of the infallibility of her instinct for right and wrong, I didn't want to give up this vain, pointless and meaningless activity. I read the magazines anyway - simply with a guilty conscience. If you are a man, I need to explain something about gossip. The widespread female interest in gossip magazines has neurobiological causes, a function of women's pronounced linguistic, emotional and social skills. I may have made that up, but it sounds plausible. Men have sport. They watch football, boxing, ice hockey or Formula 1, drink beer and keep quiet. This is where the common man finds solace and relaxation for his nerves, which are strained by the perils of modern life.
The purest safari of base instincts.
And anyone who has an idea of how much more relaxed men's nerves already are compared to women's nerves should understand that women therefore need harder stuff. Of course, gossip satisfies baser instincts, but it's so incredibly relaxing. But now I have a fourteen-year-old daughter, and that puts me in a moral dilemma. Because I read gossip magazines ironically, in the knowledge that they have almost nothing to do with reality. But how can I convey this to my daughter? She's at a sensitive age where the management of problem areas isn't the best reading. And because education works primarily through role models, I can no longer innocently buy gossip magazines. And so I fall back on my tried and tested tactics from before. I read the magazines anyway, just with a guilty conscience. When I've finished, I bury them in the paper collection in the hope that my daughter won't find them. With moderate success. Because her female neurobiology not only gives her a desire for gossip, but also for secrets. And so she tracks down the gossip magazines with great accuracy. Unless I want to burn these magazines in the fireplace in future, there are only two solutions: The grown-up solution is to give up. The hopeful one is to trust that it won't harm her any more than it will harm me. I decided in favour of the latter. Since then, we've been reading the rubbish together and having a great time.
