"How do people subscribe to that magazine?" Greg asked as we wound our way between scarf and snack kiosks in the Minneapolis airport, which is mostly a mall. I had just purchased my second issue of The New Yorker during our week-long honeymoon trip to California. In the significant amount of time we had spent in the air, I'd read almost every blurb, article and even the fiction.
I thought his question was rhetorical until he added, with a wry smile in my direction, "They definitely don't watch Fringe."
Ugh.
During the rare times I consider subscribing to The New Yorker (always while reading it and feeling unbearably enlightened), I contemplate which time-wasters I will finally and righteously cast off like the filthy and shameful habits they are in order to reclaim the time necessary to read, cover to cover, this dense, idea-rich magazine on a weekly basis.
I start the editing process with television: sitcoms on CBS, less-than-classic movies on Turner Classic Movies, and certainly the aforementioned X-Files rehash on Fox. Ideally, I would shed television altogether if not for 30 Rock, Mad Men and CBS Sunday Morning. I need these shows and they need me.
Then I move to that other boob-tube, the computer. Facebook, MySpace, YouTube: surely I could snatch a handful of constructive hours back from these hideous monsters of entertainment.
Naturally, introduction of The New Yorker leaves no room for other magazines. No more constructive advice from Real Simple or fantasy home decor in Domino. And casual shopping in Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean catalogs is relegated to the stroll between the mailbox and the recycle bin.
This imaginary clean sweep exhilarates me. In the deceptively simple process of freeing up time to read a magazine, I could overthrow my slothful habits and become a better, smarter, more fulfilled person. My dinner party conversation would improve by leaps and bounds, and I might actually get invited to dinner parties! I would be more esteemed and attractive. And for only $1 per issue! Plus, with all this free time on my hands, I could tackle neglected projects like my scrapbook and weatherproofing the basement!
But transformation requires effort and possible discomfort. Change is difficult. Suddenly, contemplating a magazine subscription feels like the morbid, heart-pounding process of deciding which of my most beloved possessions I would grab first in the event of a house fire. Maybe I'm not ready for The New Yorker. Besides, the fifth season of Lost begins February 4.
I thought his question was rhetorical until he added, with a wry smile in my direction, "They definitely don't watch Fringe."
Ugh.
During the rare times I consider subscribing to The New Yorker (always while reading it and feeling unbearably enlightened), I contemplate which time-wasters I will finally and righteously cast off like the filthy and shameful habits they are in order to reclaim the time necessary to read, cover to cover, this dense, idea-rich magazine on a weekly basis.
I start the editing process with television: sitcoms on CBS, less-than-classic movies on Turner Classic Movies, and certainly the aforementioned X-Files rehash on Fox. Ideally, I would shed television altogether if not for 30 Rock, Mad Men and CBS Sunday Morning. I need these shows and they need me.
Then I move to that other boob-tube, the computer. Facebook, MySpace, YouTube: surely I could snatch a handful of constructive hours back from these hideous monsters of entertainment.
Naturally, introduction of The New Yorker leaves no room for other magazines. No more constructive advice from Real Simple or fantasy home decor in Domino. And casual shopping in Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean catalogs is relegated to the stroll between the mailbox and the recycle bin.
This imaginary clean sweep exhilarates me. In the deceptively simple process of freeing up time to read a magazine, I could overthrow my slothful habits and become a better, smarter, more fulfilled person. My dinner party conversation would improve by leaps and bounds, and I might actually get invited to dinner parties! I would be more esteemed and attractive. And for only $1 per issue! Plus, with all this free time on my hands, I could tackle neglected projects like my scrapbook and weatherproofing the basement!
But transformation requires effort and possible discomfort. Change is difficult. Suddenly, contemplating a magazine subscription feels like the morbid, heart-pounding process of deciding which of my most beloved possessions I would grab first in the event of a house fire. Maybe I'm not ready for The New Yorker. Besides, the fifth season of Lost begins February 4.
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