"Real Simple," Real Sad.

I have subscribed to “Real Simple” magazine twice, and both times I let the subscription lapse rather than renewing it. The first time I wasn’t really sure why I let it lapse — it just seemed the thing to do. I figured out why the second time. And I won’t be subscribing again.

“Real Simple” makes me sad.

“Real Simple” is a journal of depravity presented as a reasonable, helpful aid to daily living. If you don’t examine it closely it seems to consist of innocuous, even “inspiring” material: Stories of women who have overcome great odds (or, more frequently, given up “stressful” careers to be stay at home mothers), organizing tips, and simple recipes. Sure, it sounds good (in a way), and it damn sure looks fabulous (in an understated, muted sort of way). But it’s horrible, and empty, and most of all, sad.

The last issue I read had an article called “Organize Me.” It outlined the clutter in one woman’s minivan, and then the solutions used to corral it. It seemed normal enough, but it made me cry — and organizing articles rarely provoke such emotional response. The woman in the article wrote “permission slips and thank-you notes while in the car pool lane.” Her whole purpose in the organizational process was to “get more done while [she was] in the car.”

This woman practically lived in her car. She spent so much time shuttling from place to place all day long that the objects needed at each place could not leave the vehicle, since there was no down time between trips. Her kids did homework in the car. She charged her laptop, phone, and PDA in the car — and one could assume that she used them all in the car, too. And sure, they did a great job of putting all of the clutter into a more manageable system, and a system that seemed easy enough to maintain.

But did anyone ever stop the woman and ask her if all of these activities were necessary?

How far away from work or her children’s activities does this woman live that makes her car a second home? How many activities do her children participate in? Was this really a good time to go back to school for a master’s degree while still working and shuttling everyone around all the time? Couldn’t her husband take over some of the child-schlepping if his wife’s education was really a priority?

As I read through the article, I was overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness. This woman’s life is considered completely normal. Her children’s hamster-wheel existence is normal. Her husband’s absence is normal. All of these things are expected and normal. Many people reading that article took away helpful tips for their own two hour commutes, I’m sure.

I took away a sense of despair so palpable I wept.

Another article in the same issue, called “The Happiest 15 Minutes of My Day,” had single page profiles of five “real” women who explained what daily activity they enjoyed most. They ranged in age from 26 to 42, but all save one (whose favorite time was picking up her children from school) stated that her happiest time was the only brief part of the day that she spent alone: Pre-dawn dog walking, a solo morning jog around Manhattan, drinking tea after both husband and children were asleep, commuting home. Actually, the commuter apparently spent most of her time alone, as in her profile she said, “When I get home, I’ll pass by my husband on his way out to work the graveyard shift…but the dog and cat will keep me company.”

It just made me sad.

There were articles on “[pulling] yourself out of a bad mood,” getting a workout in 15 minutes, and an article that showed how to arrange bland furniture in bland rooms — articles for frenzied beige people, pretending to simplify their lives by buying more, doing more, feeling less, and pretending that everything is perfectly okay.

I don’t want any part of that.

I actually live a simple life. I take the bus to work, so I don’t have a minivan to organize. The happiest part of my day is when my partner and I cook dinner together, then sit at the table to eat together. I have time — for myself and others, plus time to develop new skills and polish old ones. My life is not usually hectic. And despite struggling with depression most of my life, I’m mostly happy these days.

I’ve made different choices than most people — deliberately — and I understand that. I don’t have children (and I don’t want to have them), and I have no desire to live in the suburbs. I don’t have a high-powered career, and I’m not likely to be “successful” by mainstream standards. But I have something the people in “Real Simple” magazine don’t have: Ease.

I don’t have to struggle every day to do a million things expected of me by others.

And I don’t have to read “Real Simple” magazine to simplify my life. Their version of simplicity is far too sad to be authentic.