It happened again - this time it didn't even make it up to our apartment.
For months, I have been mourning the loss of Domino. Please don't laugh or take me any less seriously when you realize that I am in fact talking about a home design magazine, or more accurately the former home design magazine. This is where you see that I am equally passionate about beautiful things and spaces and craftiness as I am about sitting in silent meditation and learning to live in the present moment.
Domino was different - it was clever and accessible and quirky and fun. It spoke my language, talked about my kind of people and shared inspirational images of spaces that I would want to live in. And though the world of design blogs now fills a bit of the void with thousands of design inspirations and suggestions, what is missing is the experience of the turned page. Whenever I opened our mailbox and saw the plastic wrapped treasure amidst the sea of advertisements and bills, I knew that later that evening I would get to sit in my favorite chair, drink my favorite tea and journey into the pages of this printed world of beautiful things. Guess you could call it a creative pause.
And then, just like that, it ended because apparently someone had misjudged the demographic that so piously followed Domino and so it ended. Just like that. After the initial shock subsided and I allowed myself a bit of disappointment, I was able to detach myself and simply accept that all things come to an end at some point and that change is inevitable. So I moved on. Until the first Glamour arrived and it all bubbled to the surface.
I will apologize in advance if you are loyal to Glamour magazine. Please keep reading and enjoying it. When the first one arrived as a replacement for the remainder of my Domino subscription, I figured I would try my old ritual. But with every turn of the page, I grew more disappointed and dissatisfied. "How could they pick this crap as the replacement?" were the words that raged in my head.
For months, I have kept giving it another try. Kept schlepping the magazine upstairs though my ritual grew shorter and shorter and slowly faded completely. And then today, when I opened the mailbox and saw it yet again poking over the other recyclable advertisements, I just made the decision to stop the how-could-they-send-this-instead chatter and dumped it straight into the recycling bin. And can I tell, that simple little gesture stopped a flood of negative and distracting mumbo jumbo in my already chatter filled head.