What Did Cosmo Teach Me About Feminism?

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I read my first Cosmopolitan long before I could order one. I was fourteen, antsy to leave suburban Los Angeles, and eager to master surefire fellatio techniques, even if I hadn’t yet lost my technical virginity. During an adolescence of strict curfews and poorly taught sex ed, Cosmo simultaneously played the roles of worldly big sis and relatable best friend. I thought of the magazine’s writers as culturally savvy sexual mavericks, and at the time, I wanted nothing more than to emulate them. These were women who could advise you on how to negotiate a raise by day and how to hunt for your G-spot by night. Their unwavering insistence on independence and personal satisfaction flew in the face of patriarchy. It was radical, it was rebellious, and to my 14-year-old self, it was feminist.

Nine years and a lapsed subscription later, I’m considerably less deluded about the “radical” views espoused by women’s magazines. By the time I got to college, I had all but given up glossies, which I found too preposterous to take seriously any longer. I disagreed with the dating advice, found the reader confessions too contrived, and resented the fashion spreads filled with clothes I couldn’t afford. I started to view women’s magazines as anti-feminist instead of aspirational, antiquated instead of revolutionary. My younger self may have learned plenty of “You go, girl!” lessons from Cosmopolitan, but I had also internalized messages about body image and consumerism that were emblematic of the power structures I sought to reject as an adult. No longer is Cosmopolitan the empowering role model but, rather, the enforcer of gender roles and stereotypes.