the new york times changed my life

I thought about subscribing to the New York Times for about ten years before I actually took the plunge. Ten years is an absurd amount of time to make a decision (fer cryin' out loud, I've chosen husbands in less time). But there seemed so much to consider. The NYT is such a large life commitment. Think of the enormous investment of time, for one, not to mention the expense. (Of course I don't see an analogy to marriage here. These things are not the same at all.)

Plus there's the issue of those ever-accumulating mounds of papers forming a fire hazard in your garage.

But finally the fantasy of becoming a world-wise intellectual (who can finish the Sunday crossword in ten minutes flat!) won out. And now I can't believe I waited so long. It's such a treat to wander outside in my bathrobe and bare feet first thing in the morning to scoop up the paper, hoping none of the neighbors see me (or perhaps I wish they will see me. "Wow!" they'll say. "She gets the Sunday Times!"), and then to sit perusing it over the next hour, drinking three or four hot cups of coffee in succession. I'm even willing to get up an hour earlier in the morning just to give myself the pleasure of lingering over the paper.

Getting the NYT necessitated several life changes, though. The first thing I realized was that the living room furniture would have to be rearranged. You can't properly read the Sunday paper unless you're sitting in a good armchair, preferably with a pair of slippers, a pipe, and a contented dog at your feet.

I'm willing to forgo the pipe and the contented dog (although I can supply an ill-contented one, and am, btw, willing to negotiate good terms for her¹). But the armchair is a must. And if you're going to have an armchair, you're also going to need some kind of lamp by it to help you read, and maybe a side table to put your coffee and reading glasses on as you do your browsing.

So I went shopping. And then, when that failed, I went scavenging. I scored a suitable standing lamp from my parents; I faked a side-table by mounding up a lot of books (of which I will never be in short supply) and topping them with a tray table. Things are much more cluttered now, and there's not much room for chasing the dog around the coffee table anymore. But I can read now. And I kind of like the look--it's more homey and, I'm thinking, maybe more professorish. Which reminds me of that close link between the personality you project and the one you end up owning.....

But time enough to ruminate on that one later on.
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¹ Item: Note the guilty expression on the face of the dog. I'm certain she did something unmentionable in the dining room. But I can't find it.