Wherein I make a shameful confession
**pause here while the similarly afflicted respond with a friendly-sounding, "Hi, Wordgirl".**
You heard me correctly. I love magazines. This love in no way affects my uncontrollable affection for books, but that is another--and much longer--post. Considering that "Book Ho" was one of the many names I was considering for this blog, I thought I should mention it.
I came by this love honestly. My mother and both my sisters are also suckers for the slick and shiny power of the periodical. I don't know exactly when it started, but I know Christmas was involved. I cut my teeth on the Christmas issue of Good Housekeeping. All those wonderful photos of happy families with clear skin and good hair celebrating the holidays. And though it was technically not a magazine, the chunky Christmas edition of the Sears catalog served a similar purpose. The source from whence all good toys came, it was like having a big brick of crack delivered to our door.
I had to make do with reading TIGER BEAT, TEEN AND SEVENTEEN while standing at the magzine rack at the grocery store, because I was not really allowed to blow my money on something that might give me "ideas". By the time I was old enough to call the shots on that kind of reading I had already moved on to harder stuff....like GLAMOUR and MADEMOISELLE and occasionally COSMOPOLITAIN, though I confess I never really identified with the contents.
It was also clear that I didn't possess boobs the size of small flotation devices that seemed necessary to be a Cosmo Girl.
It was just as well. NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC and MS. came along and forced me to use the part of my brain that wasn't reserved for helping me match my purse with my shoes. And all these years later, I'm still buying magazines. Subscribing or buying off the rack. I'll buy an issue of DOMINO just for the picture of a wall color I want to try or because I like the idea of making a coffee table out of old pieces of wall trim, and I'll snag an issue of BELIEVER because there's an interview with David Sedaris in its pages.
Nothing can send a shot of endorphines coursing through my veins like the fiction issue of THE NEW YORKER or any of my arty mags like CLOTH, PAPER, SCISSORS, or HOME COMPANION. VANITY FAIR gets delivered to my door, but I'll buy ATLANTIC MONTHLY, MENTAL FLOSS, UTNE READER, YOGA JOURNAL, BOOKMARKS, RUNNER, or ROLLING STONE off the rack. Sometimes, if I'm feeling "flush", I'll buy them all at once. Once I even bought the premier issue of something called HEBE magazine...and I'm not even Jewish. I call that a "drive-by" purchase.
I draw the line at anything to do with NASCAR, tabloid trash (though they look interesting in a "Freak Show" kind of way) or that magazine for folks who enjoy raising ferrets.
So, there! It's all out in the open and I can pull out that copy of PEOPLE that I've been hiding and judge for myself whether or not Matthew McConnaghay (sp?) is really the Sexiest Man Alive.
Want to join my support group? Tell me what mags you read.