I am usually quite happy to have been born female. I like boobies, sparkly makeup and being able to sing in the same key as


Today in Sex: Quit Marketing to My Ovaries

I am usually quite happy to have been born female. I like boobies, sparkly makeup and being able to sing in the same key as Madonna. But there are times when it's . . . not embarrassing, exactly, but a bit of a liability. Like the time I was mistaken for a member of a hootin', hollerin' bachelorette party. Realizing that a liter of menstrual blood has just blasted through my cervix during a business meeting is another. And being marketed to like I'm some sort of Eileen-Fischer-wearing, yoga-mat-carrying, "spiritual"-but-not-religious cliché is quite possibly the worst. Of course I'm talking about this year's lady sensation, Eat Pray Love, and all the drek that's being sold along with it.

Marketing to women in a completely insulting way is nothing new. When I saw the awesome Runaways movie, every single trailer featured cooing infants. And who can forget all the crap they tried to sling along with the SATC franchise. But this Eat Pray Love sales juggernaut makes all that pale in comparison.

Since I'm not a regular Oprah viewer, EPL wasn't really on my radar until my stepmother pressed it on me a couple years back, insisting I'd love it. She'd bought copies for both my sisters too. Peg (the stepmom) has great taste, so I figured I'd give it a try. Within pages I'd thrown it across the room in disgust and scared the cat with my howls of aggravation. Then I picked it up and began reading again, with the same sick fascination I feel whenever I get sucked into that Kardashian sisters show.

By now you know the story and if you're at all interested, you probably already have your tickets to watch Julia Roberts play Elizabeth Gilbert this weekend. I will not be joining you.

See, I don't need to see the movie to feed my third-eye aware, hemp-underpanted lifestyle. As I was writing this I was sipping a delish mug of herbal EPL tea (not really) while simultaneously perusing an email invite to an EPL online sample sale (yes, really), featuring "sandscrit" (sic) bags, bedazzled camcorders (to better record my Garudasana?), and a selection of pseudo-spiritual jewelry. If I've got the travel bug, I can relieve my 401k of 20k and follow the author's journey, using any number of agencies who've designed trips around the book. Or I could go straight to the source and fly to New Jersey and shop at Gilbert's new Southeast-Asian-inspired antique store. (Why go to all the way Bali, when the dirty Jerz is so much closer?)

Luckily for my bank account, I will abstain from all these purchases as well the film. See, my fallopian tubes ran off with my wallet. If I know them, they're probably off drinking Cosmos, banishing unwanted body hair, and having a mood swing.

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