Even though I went on and on last week about how I cashed in 120 of my hard-earned Coke Rewards points just so I could physically own Scarlett's 2006 "Sexiest Woman Alive" photo spread in last November's Esquire, I've decided after an intense cost-benefit analysis that it would not be worth dropping the better part of a Cosi salad on the April issue of Vogue, on which she is also the covergirl.
This decision is in no way a reflection of how dewy and nubile ScarJo looks in her plumsicle '50s-inspired satin Prada ensemble (my favorite) or her turquoise D&G bustier with built-in Chantilly lace bra complete with "Oh piddle, did I invite you both tonight?" expression. Not at all.
Frankly, I've just never found Vogue capable of sustaining my interest through its 400-odd pages. Even on an airplane where I don't have the lure of a playful puppy and more than 60 stored episodes of "Laguna Beach," "Real Housewives of Orange County," "The Agency" and "Nightline," I still have to take a breather at the halfway point, eat a snack and read some Kant to unwind. It's just too arduous to plow through, too riddled with ads, too humorless and in the end, just too friggin' heavy for my delicate shoulders to bear on the five-block walk home.
I have nothing but the utmost respect for the writing and the photographs gracing Vogue's pages, but I can't deny the physical exhaustion - strikingly similar to that of a poorly-paced half-marathon - I experience every time I give that magazine another chance.
The digital pictures have an additional advantage over their paper counterparts in that we have the ability to look them - Scarlett wearing her Chanel sequined microshorts and crystal-encrusted wedges, as an example - with the lights off.
If we were so inclined, that is.
Uh, anyway, here's Miss Scah-lett in this month's issue of Vogue:
