I know this, of course. I tell myself this every time I see them on the shelf, their glossy interior shots beckoning to me like Playboy centrefolds.
"Do not buy that magazine, Edwina. You KNOW how this story ends..."
Let me start at the beginning. Yesterday, Duffel and I travelled to Melbourne for work. Because, that's just how we roll...(ROLL! Get it? Because, Duffel is, like, a WHEELY BAG??!)
Anyway, so there we are in Melbourne. Duffel is stuffed full of clothes and gadgets and I'm stuffed full of coffee and biscuits and we're both making ourselves useful around my company's Melbourne office.
You want to see my trip in photos? You do, right?
At the airport on the way home, I went to the newsagent because I had forgotten to pack my Kindle and, frankly, iPhone Tetris is beginning to sh*t me.
The latest edition of Real Living Magazine was there and, like a sucker, I bought it. I read it. As usual, I got all lusty over the photos. I got home. I got inside. Then, I kissed my husband hello, pushed past him and into our bedroom and spent the next 1.5 hours frantically re-organising my scarf and underwear drawers.
No, seriously. I'm not exaggerating.
At one point, Dan came and sat in the corner and watched me, asking distracting questions like "So... are you feeling alright?" and "No really, why are you being so weird?"
But I couldn't talk about my trip, or anything else for that matter. Not until those drawers were organised and our bedroom was looking a bit more Real Living-worthy.
If magazines like Cleo and Cosmo promote unhealthy body image, then interiors magazines should definitely take some responsibility for promoting unhealthy house image.
I hereby pledge not to buy any more of them until we have time to pick up renovations again. I will even try and steer clear of the most dangerous house blogs until life settles down a bit.
After all, life's hard enough without feeling inadequate because your sock drawer is unorganised.