There were days as a kid when I was so bored, I organized my entire day around the mail delivery.

At 2:45 p.m., I caught a bus home from school. At 3:15 p.m., I heard a set of trudging footsteps ascending the porch stairs. There would be a pause while the letter carrier rooted, then a rustle of letters sliding through the brass mail slot. Clank. Then footsteps descending the stairs, even slower on the exit route, like a depressed earthbound Santa Claus. This was my cue to fetch.

Best case scenario, I’d receive free samples of diabetic candy that I had furtively ordered through a dial-up Internet connection in our basement. (I did not have diabetes; it was just easier to smoke out medical freebies in the jungle of the early Internet than actual candy.)

But the worst case scenario was more common: a spray of junk mail, a bouquet of bills for my father and a Lands’ End catalog representing everything that bored me most — utility, modesty, stain-resistance — in clothing form. Lands’ End catalogs seemed to arrive daily. They symbolized thwarted hopes.

Image Credit... Jennifer S. Altman for The New York Times

The Lands’ End catalog of today would have landed at my third-grade feet with more of a splash. The current edition stars Angela Lindvall, who has Chanel campaigns and Vogue covers on her résumé, smiling in $69 noniron pullover tunics and $139 floral party dresses.