Back in my early days of suburbia, I received one or two catalogs in the mail, and that was about it.
However, catalogs, I soon learned, are like rabbits: They tend to multiply if left unattended.
At first I looked forward to the occasional Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma catalogs.
Not that I was buying, because we were young and house poor. But like a man with a girly magazine, I liked to look at the pictures and dream about what I didn’t have at home.
Soon enough, though, more catalogs started pouring in. Initially it was just home décor-themed catalogs, which made sense since I had a home.
But then I started getting catalogs for obscure things I had absolutely no possible interest in, such as hunting gear, Amish clothing and pet diapers for elderly, incontinent dogs.
Somehow I had gotten on the mailing list for everything from surgical scrubs to Harley-Davidson clothes, which would be great if I was a doctor who rode a cool hog, rather than a stay-at-home mom who drives a lame-o SUV.
Sure, the catalogs were pretty and colorful and inviting, and made me almost want to call right in and order a plain and simple Amish lady’s bonnet.
But the catalogs had started crowding out my regular mail and soon reached such a volume that the mailman simply left them stacked next to the post.
I was afraid the neighbors were going to think I had some kind of catalog addiction, do an intervention and enroll me in a mail-order 12-step program.
The day I received a catalog for the Avocado of the Month Club, I decided the time had come to cut off the catalogs cold turkey. I had no choice. I don’t even really like guacamole.
Now, I knew I got a lot of catalogs, but since they never came all at once, I really had no idea how many there were.
For a month I collected all my catalogs and piled them up in a heap in my kitchen. By the time I reached 50, I figured I could either wallpaper my family room with them or take some action.
Getting catalogs, it seemed, was easy. Stopping getting catalogs … not so much.
From my monster pile o’ catalogs, I went through each one and wrote down their mailing address.
Then I typed a lovely, gracious cease-and-desist-or-I-will-sue-you-and-the-Amish-buggy-you-rode-in-on letter.
I printed out 50 copies, cut out my mailing label on each catalog, stuck it to the letter, then mailed them all out.
Warily, I watched the mail get delivered each day. As the mailman staggered under the weight of my catalogs, I began to wonder if my letters had ended up in some catalog slush pile.
I thought it pretty ironic that in trying to end the junk mail, I may have ended up becoming junk mail myself.
Then, slowly but surely, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of catalogs I was receiving.
Day by day, the pile got smaller and smaller, until one afternoon, I opened up the mailbox and found only bills.
Smiling with smug satisfaction, I went in the house and logged onto my email. I had 30 incoming messages.
They were all online catalogs.
