Mmmmmm, Magazines

Mmmmm…. Magazines

I love magazines. No, I mean I really love magazines. I love the pictures and words. I love the ideas, the inspirations, and the recipes. It doesn’t matter what magazine. It could be Money or Sports Illustrated or Lucky or Dog Fancy. Each one contains some tidbit of information I am sure I need to know. In my mind, they are all waiting just for me to run my fingers across the cool smooth pages. I open the new issue and take a big whiff. There is something magical about the smell that wafts out when a magazine is freshly opened. To me it’s like coffee brewing in the morning, or bread baking in the oven. Several magazines, like Cosmopolitan, Lucky or InStyle, include perfume scent sample cards in them. The whole issue smells good. And the perfume lingers for a long time.

Some people are anxious for the first of the month to bring them checks or bank statements. Me? I look forward to the middle of the month when all the new magazines start coming out. I watch each day for the mail truck and then run right out to see what has arrived. My son says someday the mail carrier is going to need a hand truck to get them to our box. I say I will meet him and haul them in. Just let me at those magazines.

It is this attitude that has gotten me labeled a magaholic. I will admit that magazines are serious business in my house. No one messes with my magazines. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t use drugs. I don’t gamble. I do eat a bit more than I should, but we call food more a passion than a vice in our house. So what could be so wrong with a little magazine adoration? I mean, what really comprises an addiction? And if it is an addiction, can it possibly be that bad?

When new issues are brought into the house, the family has learned to set them by my place on the supper table. Before dinner when I set the table, I move them into the bedroom. I walk slowly so I can leaf through one on my way. I put them on my pillow where they rest until bedtime. On those nights, bedtime comes early. There are few things as wonderful as climbing in bed and opening up a new issue of Country Home or The Smithsonian.

Each publication and issue is approached the same way. First I leaf through it page by page. I need to see the whole thing before I can ever begin to concentrate on any one article. It is just way too distracting to know there are unturned pages. I am constantly wondering what else is in there.

When my eyes finally get too heavy to read anymore, I am forced to turn off the light. None too soon for my husband, I’m sure. But before the issue is closed, I mark my place with a real bookmark. It would just be wrong to use one of those subscription cards that fall out every few pages. Then the magazine is put right above my head on the headboard where I can still smell it. That is if the stack there is not on the brink of spilling over onto my pillow, or worse, my pretending-to-be-sleeping spouse. The next option is the nightstand. Some days, I just go ahead and add them to the stack on the floor.

Magazines are a line item on my household budget. Most all the subscriptions seem to expire around the same time, so I justify it as an annual expense. However, I will admit I sneak magazines into the food budget. I will go without bread or milk to get the latest copy of Oprah. I would forego toilet paper if I spy a new Real Simple at the checkout counter. My heart jumps when I see a newly launched magazine like All You or KidZone. It is highly justified in my mind to check out the newbies. I never hesitate to toss those babies right onto the conveyer belt. I pretend I don’t hear when the cashier comments about the number of magazines as they are filling up a bag. Oh who is he to judge?

My husband is understanding about my need for magazines. In fact, he is downright wonderful about my so-called addiction. He doesn’t care what I spend on them. Sometimes he is interested in what I find. In fact, I think he prefers it when a picture inspires something I want built. It is so much easier to show him than try to describe a shape or general design. We speak very different languages when it comes to that sort of thing. This tolerant man only gets irritated when the coffee table, nightstand and headboard grow taller by eight or nine inches. When he has to move magazines to the floor to be able to see the entire screen of the television, that’s when he starts sighing. Even when the piles on the floor begin to reach knee level, he keeps adding to the stacks. Eventually, if I don’t heed the sighing, he will begin to drop those subtle man-hints like, “Hey, when are you planning to get rid of some of these magazines?”

However, even with his open mind, he just doesn’t seem to understand I need a quiet private time to go through them all for the last time. I clip facts and directions for things I will make someday. I cut out pictures that inspire future creations. I save articles that teach me or touch my heart. I collect verses, quotes and words in pretty fonts. Occasionally they are shared in cards to friends and relatives. All different sizes and shapes, the clippings all get taped onto notebook paper in collages. Then the pages are inserted into “The Book.”

At this point The Book has a bit of a weight problem. It is a three-inch binder trying to grow into a four-inch binder. If I add much more, I am afraid it will have to become a volume set, or worse, a set of binders each with a different theme. That thought is disturbing to me. I like the garden plans and pictures in with the decorating inspirations. The “places to go someday” are comfortable with the fact sheets about teas and apples. The directions for painting the floor cloth are happy nestled in between the outhouses of Nova Scotia. And I am happy to look through them all jumbled together as they are.

After the clipping, arranging, and taping, the remaining carcasses are taken to the recycling center and bid farewell. I think about them as I drive home, hoping I didn’t miss anything. But I don’t lament too long, because, hey, the next issues are due out soon and when I get home, I stop and check the mailbox.