Dear Glamour Magazine,

Sorry I haven't returned any of your emails, inquiring as to why I have let my subscription expire, I was really busy getting ready for the holidays with the kids and all. Not that you want anyone with children reading your magazine, maybe someone with their first baby bump, who can buy some adorable, high-end maternity fashions, but certainly not anyone with three children, who considers getting her yoga pants from Express these days instead of Old Navy a step up up in the world. So to that end, Glamour, it's time to end our relationship.

Yes, yes, I get nostalgic too, thinking about our beginnings, but don't let that fool you into thinking this thing will still work. Those days were magical, twenty years ago, lying on my white, canopy bed, with a smuggled copy of you, dreaming of the glamorous life I would lead once I was an actual adult, as your title would have me believe. Your younger and actually age-appropriate, younger sister, Seventeen, lay discarded on the floor, full of Benetton and Cornsilk adds, while I dreamed of a time when I could wear high-heeled pumps everyday, and buy that color of Wet 'n Wild my mother threatened to "break my face" if I dared try to wear it to the homecoming dance. Ignoring the articles about sex, like the prude I was, and focused, instead, on the shoulder-padded twenty-somethings making their way in the big city.

During college, I did start reading those sex articles, and became convinced every guy on my college campus was a date rapist in-the-making. I started taking birth control pills, guided in my choice of brand by the numerous ads in your pages. I was able to give my friends sage advice as they constantly monitored their answering machines (with actual cassette tapes inside!) hoping to hear from a one night stand we both knew was not going to call, no matter how hot she looked in that body suit last night. Still prudish as ever, and already with H, I read those articles from more of an anthropological point of view. And you kept me as au currant as possible, as I rocked my blazer and light wash jeans to class each day.

My early adult life was our hey day, Glamour. I was young, independent, and working in the city. Seriously contemplating marriage, your articles helped me see that H was The One (OK, it was more the fact that he would patiently take your asinine quizzes, that tipped me off). And I knew we would have an egalitarian marriage where we both did half the chores and contributed financially, were still deeply romantic, and would easily conceive two beautiful kids when we felt the time was right. You and I became closer than ever, as I was actually able to wear some of the fashions in your pages without looking like I was playing dress-up. I strode down the street in my pilgrim pumps, black lycra skirt and tights and mock turtle neck from Banana Republic, confident everything was going our way.

And then...children. My days in the city over, your fashion pages became both a taunt and an inspiration to lose the baby weight, only to have no place to wear ridiculously low rise jeans without showing toddlers my ass crack, as I bent to pick up my child. Sure, I still had a couple nights out for which to stock pile a few sleeveless tops, but an entire spread on how to wear a wool pencil skirt was no longer of any use to me, as were features on the new trend of lip glosses (which get immediately rubbed off by grabby, toddler hands or by kissing boo-boos) and self tanners (barely having time to shower, having ten minutes to walk around naked for this product to dry seemed laughable). Aside from the fashion, your articles on love and romance began to be filled with modern complications that sounded like made up words to me - Twitter, Tweeting, Facebook - were these new children's shows? And what is all this "friends with benefits" business? In my day, that made you a whore, and while I'm glad women are confident enough to not care if a guy calls, and not be judged for having no-strings sex, even I know, you are fooling yourself if you think you'll have any interest, or time for Christ's sake, to find your solemate, while you've got a piece on the side. And having been through the wringer with H, raising three kids, you can shove your egalitarian, "never go to bed angry", bullshit, marriage articles up your ass. It doesn't mean he doesn't love me if I do all the laundry (although putting it in the hamper might help), and sometimes the crap you say to each other after only five hours of sleep the night before is worse than saying, "Let's talk about this in the morning before I call you an asshole..again."

Let's not end this on a negative note thought, G. Through the years, you have been a fun, and occasionally, inspirational friend, and you current focus on world topics is educational and commendable (you even got me to send that whole box of the kids' stuffed animals to Africa). My wardrobe would have been a complete disaster this season with my new boots, and while I laughed at you for showing them to me in August, I thank you now. But I have outgrown you and it's time for me to move on.

Instead of replacing you, I think I'll just be down one magazine in the monthly rotation. I'm not ready to move on to the likes of Redbook just yet, since I like my glossies to be an escape and completely devoid of parenting articles, (although they did have a great article on jeans last month). And please, don't take this the wrong way, but things are getting pretty serious with your sister magazine, Self. Yes, it's awkward that you are both published by Conde Nast, but she really meets my needs. Great health and fitness articles, good fashion, and her relationship articles glancingly refer to the stress of having kids.

I hope you can move on an be happy helping the young girls of today navigate the mine-fields of love, work and fashion. And we'll meet again, someday, when #1 is in college. But be warned, if I catch you in her room before then, I'll burn you. I dont' need any of that "friends with benefits" shit in this house.
Love,
MM

PS - I knew it was time to get out when Miley Cyrus, Vanessa Hudgens, Taylor Swift, and Leighton Meester were among this year's cover girls. Especially since I don't even know who the hell the last one is.