When I wake up on Sunday mornings and ponder whether to get up or burrow back under the covers, what pushes me toward the former is the thought of my New York Times, neatly folded in its blue plastic wrapper, waiting for me down on my doorstep. As I wrestle out of bed--into which I often find myself stapled by a bevy of cats weighing down the corners of my blanket--I eagerly anticipate pouring myself a cup of coffee and separating the Times' sections for the day's reading: first sports, then the front page, then the Sunday Review, and, time permitting, Arts and Leisure. Ah, Sundays!
All of which is to say, when I open the door and do not see the familiar blue wrapper, I feel more than a little peeved! And so I have felt for roughly the last four weeks! For some reason, the paper has not been delivered, and I am reduced to reading the paper off of my computer screen like an animal!
In the grand scheme of things, I realize this hardly qualifies as a tragedy. Indeed, I come out ahead on the deal: I get a credit for the undelivered paper, but, as a subscriber in good standing, I have access to the online edition--access for which I am effectively not paying, as I keep getting credits for undelivered papers. Still, the little rituals of life can be among life's greatest pleasures. And the small deprivation of an undelivered Sunday paper starts the week off on a sour note.