I’m not much of a magazine reader. Mostly because I never have time to read them from cover to cover, so they tend to pile up in the corner. Thereby making me feel guilty and inadequate at every turn.

On the odd occasion I pick up a magazine, it’s usually The Economist, or Fast Company. I’ve never been one to pour over women’s magazines. You know, the ones extolling the virtues of the latest fashion trends and offering self-help tips which promise to help you make over your life, lose 15 pounds, please your man and/or find the love of your life in 10 steps or less.

That isn’t to say that I’m not compelled to flip through the glossy pages of one of these publications on occasion. If, for example, one happens to be lying around when I’m at otherwise loose ends.

As it so happens, one of those occasions was last night. After work I went for a long walk with my niece Jessica, who is visiting with my sister Trish. When we returned to the house, sweaty and near exhaustion, my father had just tuned into the Yankees game. Yawn. Not wanting to appear completely anti-social (although I have to say it was tempting), I picked up a magazine lying on the coffee table. I’m assuming Trish had bought it, since it wasn’t one of the flight training manuals which typically clutter up that particular surface.