I figure we’re all permitted one indulgence. Mine is advice columns.
They’re tales of universal human conflict, delivered in miniature. Overbearing moms and moms-in-law are advice column clichés. So are bridezillas and wayward wedding attendants and offended or entitled guests. And gossipy relatives and grandparents who arrive unannounced.
Advice columns are an escape into others’ problems. Clueless fiancés and fiancées. Spouses at odds over money, house chores, sex, philandering or being taken for granted – or not at odds because one is functionally comatose while the other seethes invisibly.
The momentary escape distracts from the irritations in our lives, making the columnist’s advice immaterial to readers’ fulfillment. How soothing that someone else has crankier neighbors or a friend who is a bigger mooch.
I often puzzle over who writes to advice columns. I never would. Still, I read two a day, sometimes three.
One more confession: My wife, who doesn’t know of my little addiction, would harrumph and say it’s odd to indulge in advice columns when you disdain actual advice. And, about that, about me, she’d be … not wrong.
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