As with any epidemic, there’s a tipping point and a saturation point. And then there’s fifty shades of annoying.
Yes, it’s true. There is now a theme-based magazine called 50 Shades of American Women Who Love the Book and Live the Life. I saw it in Barnes and Noble, next to a magazine celebrating all things Hobbit.
And then, shamefully, I bought it.
“Don’t judge me,” I told the young man at the register. Behind him stood a bookcase filled with paperback copies of the Fifty Shades trilogy.
He looked at the magazine and chuckled. “Are you kidding me? This stuff sells.”
Only after I paid did I realize his misunderstanding, taking me for a middle-aged woman in suburbia who turns all fifty shades of orgasmic any time someone mentions Charlie Tango. What I felt was not shame in my purchase for sexual reasons, but deep lameness in myself, an embarrassment akin to being caught singing along to Air Supply in my SUV while picking something green out of my teeth.
I’m all out of love/I’m so lost without you/got the green thing!/I know you were right, believing for so long… lalalalala…click here to continue reading….