Years ago, I broke the habit of making New Year’s resolutions. The whole venture seemed too compulsory. There was too much outside “encouragement” and too much disappointment, when despite so many good intentions, the inevitable “two steps back” kicked in. So, lately, I decided to take a gentler approach, one that doesn’t involve such earth-shattering adjustments to lifestyle, eating habits, or finding divine enlightenment.
Instead, I thought of breaking another habit, one that might inspire a subtle change or offer me a small bit of insight. Some benign shortcoming, that should I fail in excising it out of my life, there would be no real harm done. And if nothing else, my monthlong project might turn out to be a good writing prompt. It did.
Saturday, April 8
Been thinking for a few days. A habit to break, but which one? I don’t have any significantly negative ones. Too much coffee? Probably, but no way am I giving up my morning java jolt. Don’t smoke. Stopped biting my nails years ago. There must be something.
Sunday, April 16
I’m in my workspace, trying to get some editing done. Bunches of paper surround me. This room is a mess. Must be all the paperwork to file. Then it hits me. My eyes fix on the stacks of magazines under the futon across the room. The piles sliding into one another, papering over the rug. The ones I promised to go through; to read cover to cover; to sort. For years. Suddenly, I picture the other magazine mountains. Two basketsful in the bedroom. A two-foot stack in a corner. The overflowing crate by the TV.
The fact is, I am a magazine junkie. Sure, I do my share of online reading and readily admit how engaging those interactive flipbooks are. But ever since learning to read in second grade, when I quickly discovered my passion for the written word, I’m also drawn to the design of books and magazines, the feel of the paper, the smell of the inks. To say I love reading is putting it mildly and my choice of material is eclectic. Witness some of the magazine titles on hand—everything from New York, and Real Simple, from Time and Smithsonian. The occasional Vogue. The favorites merit subscriptions. Others offer sporadic interest as I’m browsing a book store, and I pick those up as needed, like Adirondack Life and Rolling Stone.
I do weed out on occasion, but apparently not fast enough (imagine my surprise to find several Parents magazines, from the early 2000s when my son was a toddler). My problem? Flipping through a new mag once, maybe read an article or two, then relegating it to the paper recreations of Jenga-like structures morphing into abstract art pieces in every room. Each time, I convince myself I’ll pick up where I left off, later than sooner. I just can’t throw anything out if I haven’t read it all. That’s it – I’m going to make this my habit to break. My mother, for one, would’ve been ecstatic. Every time she’d visit, her comment was the same, “If you live to 200, you’ll never read all this crap.”
Thursday, April 20
I intend to start the decluttering this afternoon, right after my last Zoom call. But where to begin? I guess I should start with the biggest mess under the futon. I look at it for a few minutes and think, too much, too intimidating. Start smaller, maybe the crate by the TV. Then I’ll be encouraged to move on. But my workspace is so cluttered. Under the futon, a nightmare. Screw it, I waited this long, I’ll start tomorrow.
Sunday, April 30
Many starts and stops. More than a week later I finally make some progress, though I keep getting sidetracked by all those enticing words calling to me from page after page. I see a bunch of magazines from 1996. Ridiculous. Decide cold turkey is the only way to go. I commit to ruthless purging; forbid myself even a glance at one single interior page. After an hour, I’ve got three stacks of about 20 magazines each, ready for recycling day next Thursday. It’s bittersweet.
Wednesday, May 3
On my way home from a meeting, I pass by Barnes & Noble. Walk out two hours later with The New Yorker, Mother Jones, the latest special edition of Breathe magazine, and two photography periodicals. Am I hopeless?
Thursday, May 4
More sorting, but also more tearing out of pages I swear I’ll read. Before long, more stacks are lined up for recycling, but also one entire basket is now filled with orphan pages waiting for me. For a moment, my feeling of accomplishment is overshadowed by a tinge of regret. I find comfort with my collection of out-of-print graphic design magazines.
Saturday, May 6
The space under the futon is clear! The baskets don’t overflow anymore! Mother would be so proud.
Sunday, May 7
Now for the tons of books crammed into the four overstuffed bookcases. Perhaps this calls for a resolution. Does it matter what year?