The Magazine Experiment

One of my favorite magazines used to be Martha Stewart’s Living. The photos, the tips and ideas, the recipes—I loved it all. What I loved most, though, was the illusion that if I owned this or bought that, my house would look like her house—color coordinated furniture and linens, flawless design, perfect accessories.

The antique, sterling silver tray that housed my olive oil and balsamic vinegar? A Martha tip. The cobalt blue bottle to store my dish soap? Martha. After all, who would want those offensive condiment and soap bottles sitting out on the counter without accoutrement?

Those little domestic embellishments were paving the road to my ideal—so beautifully laid out in the pages of Living. Those little domestic embellishments were costing a fortune. The silver tray? $75 to creatively display $10 worth of condiments. The blue bottle? $35 put the $1.39 bottle of Joy to shame.

The truth is, it wasn’t her house I was looking to emulate, it was her life. In the back of my mind, I thought that if my house looked like her house, certainly my life would look like her’s as well—joyful holiday dinners, warm and intimate family gatherings, copious friends celebrating around feasts for kings.

I can’t blame Martha for the illusion of the life I was striving for. The promise of its possibility was presented to me at every turn—on television, in newspapers, on billboards and the internet. Seducing me from the magazine racks prominently displayed at the checkout stands—“Create Your Dream Home,” “Give Life to Your Living Room,” “Bedrooms Like the Stars.” At one point, I was the proud subscriber to Living, Cottage Living, Country Living and Better Homes and Gardens. As a bonus, I was automatically added to mailing lists of catalogs from near and far—two dozen at last count.

Each month, these glossy tomes of dreams would arrive in my mailbox, reminding me that I wasn’t quite there yet. To achieve that life, there was more to do. More to do, and more to buy.

And then, something happened.

I can’t remember why or when. There was no watershed moment, just a feeling. A realization. I loved my little house. I loved my random knick-knacks collected over the years, the photos of family and friends in mix-matched frames, the worn-out quilt draped over the thrift store sofa. And yet, it kept feeling like it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough because each month there were these reminders that I needed more. I needed the trendy kitchen appliances. The curtains and carpets and pillow and throws in this year’s “hot color.” The beaded chandelier for the bedroom. The decorative soaps for the bathroom. And when I got too much of the stuff I needed more of? Purchase decorative—but functional—storage containers, of course.

Purchase this. Buy that. I was caught up in an unending cycle of getting more to have more, with very little satisfaction. The cobalt blue bottle did look pretty next to the kitchen sink, but it didn’t make life any more joyful or fulfilling. No one noticed the silver tray with the condiments, it just collected dust and needed to be polished every month.

And so, one day, I stopped. I canceled my subscriptions to the magazines. I resisted the urge to buy them at the grocery store. I tossed catalogs in the garbage without even looking at the covers.

It has been three years since those books of dreams cluttered my life, with interesting consequences. I rarely have the impulse to get and to buy. I don't go shopping every weekend, or keep a wish list of things I need to purchase for this room or that. I’m not seduced by sales fliers or advertising promotions—I simply throw them out. My credit card balance is near zero. My house is not fit for the spread of a magazine. But when gathering with family, or celebrating with friends, my house—my home—is filled with things I love, things that have meaning and memories. Filled with the life I was looking for all along.