I looooove magazines. Somehow, I’ve managed to subscribe to just 2.
You’d think I’d rip (metaphorically) into them on the day they arrive in my mailbox. But no. On the evening the magazine arrives I flip through it, glancing at photos and headlines. I don’t read the articles or swoon over the (overpriced) clothes. The magazine(s) then glare at me for weeks.
You see, I have some cockamamie notion that magazines can only be read on the deck/beach, on a rainy/snowy Saturday afternoon, or on a plane.
My September and October mags are being hoarded for my plane ride in October, and the November and December issues for the beach at the end of the year.
Yes, I have issues (pun intended). Yes, I know about them. No, I’m not going to change. I really, really love magazine time, and can only read them in the right situations.
Now that you know I’m a little neurotic, I hope we can still be friends.