A Magazine for Misogynists

November 12, 2007
Article and Illustration by Jim Burger

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Whenever I feel the need to laugh out loud, I run straight to the newsstand and buy a copy of Men’s Health magazine. Men’s Health is for men who haven’t figured out they hate women yet. Yes, each issue is crammed with exercises to attain those elusive “six-pack abs” that women are supposed to love. But the exercises are so intense and nonstop that, by the time you’re done, the only people who could possibly have seen you in a month are the other guys at the gym.

Men’s Health specializes in reasons to despise women, all backed up with genuine scientific findings. A special thank you goes out to the editors who published the results of a study that found women’s desks had twice as much bacteria as men’s. Think I’m touching some chick’s computer anytime soon? And Lord help the poor fool who doesn’t heed the advice of the psychologists enlisted to help him negotiate the six-month minefield following a breakup: “Don’t let her tears melt your resolve.”

Fate landed the September issue in my hands. I hurriedly bought it before boarding a plane for Miami and now read it poolside at a crumbling Art Deco gem somewhere along South Beach. I’m surrounded by pasty German tourists. My suntan allows me to feel superior, although I have only Raisin Bran and beer in my stomach. It would kill Men’s Health’s advertising execs to know that a physical wreck like me is within 100 feet of their publication, filled as it is with full-page shots of chiseled hunks. They needn’t worry — I keep the cover folded back so no one knows what I’m reading.

Men’s magazines have devolved from their great beginnings. I certainly wouldn’t hide my reading were I holding Field & Stream or Popular Mechanics. GQ and Esquire are my guilty pleasures, although I pass them off as professional requirements for the well-informed journalist I purport to be. They rarely get past the confines of my bathroom.

What’s most comical about Men’s Health is the amount of data pumped into a feature just to prove a silly point. Every article seems to start out from the same square: Let’s ask 1,000 women their opinion on one thing or another. I assume the writers feel their hearts are in the right place and due diligence has been paid, but they never get around to explaining where they found these women. I don’t know if they’re commodities traders on Wall Street or hookers in Times Square. I do know that 90 percent of them say they want me to wear more madras — so I’d really like to know who these women are before I run out and buy some.

Continuing in the sartorial vein, it took 700 women to determine that the hottest piece of clothing in a man’s wardrobe is a clean white T-shirt. OK, now we’re getting somewhere. I can handle that. But the second- and third-hottest items were a pinstriped suit and cargo shorts, respectively. Just picture the outfit needed to cover all of those bases.

And what planet did they have to visit to get 53 percent of the women to say that humor was more important in a man than ambition? Yeah, right: “Hi honey, I’m home from my fourth year in my entry-level job. Say, did I tell you the one about the two rabbis and the pig farmer?”

As a further public service, Men’s Health took it upon itself to publish the “21 Principles of Iconic Style.” Twenty-one? By No. 3 I was pretty much out of the running. The recommended $2,300 Ermenegildo Zegna suit would have eaten up my clothing budget until the year 2015. Apparently girls respond positively to wristwatches, so Principle No. 5 will set you straight (as well as back) for a mere $29,700. Trust me on this one: Any guy who has 30Gs to toss around just to know what time it is can wear whatever the hell he pleases. The women will find him.

Despite my best efforts to block it, some of the statistical nonsense burrows into my unconscious. I walk to the pool bar to order a frozen daiquiri. The barmaid is young, exotic and friendly.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“Delhi,” she says.

“Ah,” I retort. “I just read somewhere that the most stressed-out place on Earth for men is India, placing far ahead of tension-free Spain, Canada and Australia. How do they stand it there?”

Her mood changes instantly. Without another word, she slams my drink down in front of me, spilling half the contents onto the bar.

I walk away with the serene knowledge that everything will be fine. I’ll simply return later and tell her the one about the two Hindu clerics and the cattle rustler. Rest assured I’ll be wearing my new madras outfit.

Filed Under: View From Mars

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