I think I’ve made my obsession with magazines abundantly clear on this space. Cones is no different. Between the two of us, we’re pretty much holding the publishing world on our thin, elegant shoulders.
The first thing I did when she moved to Japan was react to her desperate plea for magazines and immediately sent her a bunch. Elle, Vogue, InStyle, etc. In fact, Cones’ devotion is so great that she basically got married for the sake of her magazines (it’s true, just ask her)
As for me, my “problem” can best be described by my sister’s reaction to the piles and piles of old Entertainment Weekly, Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, GQ, Vogue, US Weekly (when in LA) and InStyle behind the bar in my LA apartment. I could see it all in her face. “My sister is going to be one of those old women who live in houses filled with newspapers piled to the ceiling.” Actually, she just said it to me. She’s very blunt, my sister.
I’ve gotten better about it. I mean, yes, I still have almost ten subscriptions but I am now VERY good at the old magazine game. When I’m done with one, instead of putting them on a shelf (because, I’m sorry, someday I might need to reference what kind of jeans best fit my particular figure. Never mind that InStyle does this feature once every four months) I now leave them on the bus, the L, Starbucks, at my friends’ apartments, the recycle bin, etc.
They are, along with Netflix, the best part of getting the mail. I still get excited when I see one (or three) crammed into my little mailbox, causing my bills to crumple into the corner where they rightfully belong. I love knowing that I’ve got a stack of them ready for that afternoon when all I want to do is curl up into a ball on my bed. So, when I hear one is folding, it makes me quite sad. Not to mention very, very worried.
Poor Domino. Stupid recession. Will you not leave us in peace? YOU’RE TEARING ME APART.