I'm hooked on magazines.
I noticed this year that, aside from working out, the most effective anti-anxiety drug for me is the consumption of magazines. Celebrity gossip rags. Beauty rags. Shopping rags. Martha Stewart's Living. Cooking magazines. At three and four bucks a pop, this is an expensive little addiction, so I've started subscribing. Trouble is, I can't stop. I've got a subscription to Martha Stewart's Living. And Williams-Sonoma signed me up for Food & Wine as a gift for making a purchase of over $75. I got Real Simple (because it came with a free gift subscription I gave to my sister-in-law) and then I just signed on for Self (as a reward to myself for working out three times a week since September). And since they were pimping Lucky, the shopping magazine (and a guilty pleasure I hide like porn), I got that too.
Then there's Entertainment Weekly, which is like heroin on paper. I gotta have it all, and I gotta have it right away. I've subscribed for years. Blame Mother of PeaceBang who started me off about five years ago with the comment, "You need to read more garbage and relax." It was the same sweet reason she used for gifting me with a television when I graduated from Div School.
Magazines help me get out of idea brain and into visual brain. They help me get through 30 minutes on the Stairmaster. They're the adult equivalent of Snack Time in kindergarten. I recycle them by bringing them to the club or the manicurists or the salon. So I shouldn't feel too guilty, right? Because I read enough other important and deep stuff, right?
"Hello, my name is PeaceBang and I'm a magazine addict."