🥀The Power Of The Spiegel Catalogue: 🥀
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As far as gateway drugs go, magazines have always been my favorite.
You never forget your first hit.
A dizzying visual feast for the eyes.
Ritualistically applying the perfume samples1
90s SEVENTEEN Magazine.
Let’s have a brief moment of silence for the editors, writers, and graphic designers of this era. It is UNMATCHED. There is a clear distinction between anything published from the 2000s onward. This isn’t shade per se; it just wasn’t the same.
You feel me-I know you do.
90s SEVENTEEN magazine’s back-to-school issue made me unwell.
When I say that, it’s with zero exaggeration. I mean it in the most unflattering way possible. This was the very issue that spurred my first descent into psychosis.
We’ve discussed that palpable joy of retrieving the afternoon mail…..
Especially when you’d clock your subscription’s monthly arrival, this event was highly anticipated, unlike your period. Crooked hearts dotted the week of its expected delivery (though I had it memorized).
Fleeing the bus or returning from vacation, I’d be eyeing the mailbox for any indication of it being slightly ajar due to the HEFT OF A MAGAZINE.
Well, you can guess where this OCD-laced story is leading;
MY Back To School issue was noticeably late
Not 3 days late (my calendar allowed for wiggle room)
Once it encroached on a full 7 days of no magazine in sight, I started to unravel.
Just slightly. I started accosting the mailman/woman peering into that cute little car of treasures.
“Hey! Any Seventeen issues today? For anyone? You’ve seen it though-right? It’s really big.” This was promptly (and appropriately) stopped by my parents.
So, logically, I decided this needed to be kicked up a notch so that I could go straight to the source.
I began calling the magazine’s 1800 number (located in very fine print towards the back where the weird/intriguing bikini body ads lived) around the clock.
I left messages on God knows who’s voicemail, sounding what I believed was very professional. People often confused my voice for my mother’s when calling the house, so I could sound authoritative. Not like an unhinged twelve-year-old demanding an answer.
“Um, yes, I have a subscription, and my September magazine has not been delivered. I’m worried it was delivered to the wrong house, so here’s my address, and I need someone to find out what’s going on- this has never happened before. Also, can someone send another one? I leave for the beach soon and need to have it.”
Can you believe it-no one called back! Actually, I have a faint memory- I think someone did call back (probably to request a cease & desist verbally)
Next, I started calling my friends; we had the same mailperson, so I generally knew when we all received our mail (Are you impressed? Terrified? Probably a little of both).
Had they received theirs?!
“Not yet”
“Well, have you checked the mail yet today? Make sure your brother didn’t get to it first. I know he’s such a freak. Just use your new cordless phone. I’m on mine, and I know I love it. OK, I’ll stay on the phone while you look.”
See, how helpful I was being? KIDDING-I was a micromanaging monster.
I needed confirmation that this wasn’t just an egregious slight.
At this point, it seemed no one had received theirs as well. Even my friend in Vienna! What was going on at SEVENTEEN?! Had they decided not to deliver to Virginia?! This felt serious.
We were officially 10 Days Late (Shout out to Third Eye Blind!).
My normal baseline anxiety had crescendoed into a gnawing panic.
I demanded my parents take me to every grocery store within a 10-mile radius.
I flew through the first grocery store doors like a bat out of hell, and there it was—THE HORROR.
This is where my mental illness really starts to shine-oh you thought this was it? Ha! buckle up!
Once it hit 21 BUSINESS DAYS, something took hold of me.
Entitlement? Prue adolescent brattery? Yes and Yes.
I was beside myself. 2
But I took it to another level (like most things)
You could say this is where my adolescent sleuthing began.
During the 5-minute ride home from GIANT, I decided through deductive reasoning that my issue HAD TO HAVE BEEN DELIVERED.
But who could be holding it captive…..*DRAMATIC MUSIC*
Subscribers-FRET NOT the conclusion along with THE SPIEGEL will be in your inboxes by EOD
xoxo
Why did Obsession smell so much better in the magazine sample than when I doused myself with it in my beloved Hecht’s??
Naturally, you are thinking at this point, just buy the issue at GIANT, silly gal- but no, I wanted MINE.
Ahhh love magazine nostalgia!