Ever since I can remember I’ve collected magazines. And torn pages out of them. It started with Teen. And then Seventeen. A subscription to House Beautiful when I was about 13 (it was—and still is—only $12 for a whole year!). A flirtation with Cosmo, Glamour, Vogue. An obsession with InStyle, Real Simple. Moving on to Domino (R.I.P.), O At Home, Elle Decor. I had amassed huge amounts of disorganized piles. Exhibit A:
Dread.
A while ago, I finally went out to Tar-Jay and bought pretty binders and sleeves:
Yet, despite their prettiness and my best intentions, I couldn’t keep up with my habit. And last week I decided I’d had it. Culling my ginormous collection did take some time. Actually, it took a lot of time, but I did it. I meticulously cataloged and sorted all my photos, all my dream rooms…all my “some days”…all my “if onlys”…it was pretty darn therapeutic. And strangely rewarding. I found myself flipping through my binders. JUST. FOR. FUN. Weird. What can I say? I’ve always been the kind of person who gets a strange thrill from cleaning out a junk drawer. Some day I’ll get some tabbed dividers and make these even MORE organized, but until then, I’ll just enjoy the finished product; beautifully sorted, organized and stored:
Bliss.
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