The mail sails through the chute in my hallway and lands on the floor with a thud. This is not the soft flutter of letters from friends. This is a sound full of promise. It’s a catalog.
I love catalogs. My permanent and growing collection towers in stacks on the bedroom floor, night stand, coffee table, dining room table and bathroom sink.
I can’t bear to throw them away. I closely examine every page of every catalog that arrives at my door.
Until about two years ago I never received any catalogs. Apparently I was such a lowly retail prospect that even the department stores where I had charge cards didn’t bother to send them. Then one day I asked a friend at work where she had gotten her dress. She whipped a catalog out of her desk. I ordered the dress, and it arrived in my mailbox a week later. It was seductively easy.
And with that first order, catalog companies’ marketing departments lurched into gear. Within 48 hours, the merchandise equivalent of hundreds of specialty stores was at my fingertips. It was thrilling.
But it’s a big responsibility trying to keep up. Victoria`s Secret, which seems to arrive every two weeks, just about did me in until I realized the contents are pretty much the same for about six months.
It’s worth the pressure. Leafing through a catalog never fails to buoy my spirits. Sometimes, when I need to be good to myself, I fill out the order forms with an extravagant number of expensive items. Then I am filled with a lovely glow that comes from buying myself a ton of presents. It is not necessary actually to order them. The fantasy alone is quite effective.
On the other hand, if I still pine for something months later, I know I really want it-if it’s still available.
Victoria`s Secret is an example of one of the dangers of catalogs: thin yet voluptuous models. Proceed with caution if you are experiencing any body image problems and remind yourself the models do not resemble any female human you know personally.
One other minor disadvantage is the return process-which involves repacking the purchase and a trip to the post office.
My husband has tried all methods to part me from my catalogs. He has cajoled, begged, reprimanded. My ignoring him was vindicated when he asked me to find a gift for a friend`s 40th birthday. I immediately knew the perfect item for our Trekkie friend was in an 8-month-old catalog sitting on my bedroom floor. It was a coffee mug with an image of the Enterprise, but when hot liquid was poured into the cup, a Klingon ship appeared.
The possibilities are endless. You can satisfy all your material needs with a stamp and an order form-or often with an 800 number, if you don’t mind spelling your name at least three times, then repeating your address, phone number, customer number, charge number and item number to the order-taker on the phone.
Using an order form goes pretty well for me until it is time to tear it out via a supposedly perforated line and then attempt to fit it into the company’s return envelope.
My husband recently derived a morning’s entertainment watching me try to fold an order form 2 feet long into a miniature envelope.
One way or the other, though, I still prefer the mail to the mall.
