Do you know what ten years of the National Geographic weighs? I don't know exactly, but it is a hell of a lot. Ask me how I know, go ahead...

A vast expanse of yellow spines was standard issue at homes and schools during my childhood. We read them in school, pulling from shelves and shelves of them to wonder at heretofore unseen... wonders. At the neighbor's house, we witnessed the sagging shelves, slowly succumbing to the slick magazines with the beautiful photography. And the message soaked in: "As an adult, you must have them too. Along with those boxes of baseball cards that you will surely buy, once employed, you must bring the National Geographic into your home."

In 1996, I finally had a home life and an end to my life as a corporate road-warrior. Every day: home, pick up the mail, walk the dog, nod at the anonymous neighbors. Time to get the National Geographic!

And it came and came. We were so not worthy. It looked great there on the coffee-table, often unread, but very eye-catching nonetheless. We couldn't keep up. The dense and serious articles on topics of great import: the origin of species, ancient civilizations, space-flight, global warming, peak oil... "hey, wait a minute, where are the natives, the tigers, and the dusty artifacts?"

The magazine and I suppose the Society itself by extension had become a liberal bull-horn, decrying fossil fuels, our terrible effect on this Earth, the plunder of non-white civilizations, and the social costs of body fat. Yes, body fat was a cover story.

The dunning letters, just daring us to let our subscription lapse, were the final straw. Every single month, renew, renew, renew.

And now as we need the space for a growing family, it is surprisingly easy to just let them go. "Hope my back will hold up long enough to get the crate of them into the car," I muttered.

We did at least drop them at the recycling center. Yeah, we love the Earth, too.