Tension with the Times

{ The Sunday NYT + a pot-o-tea }

I think it's important you know that I tend to impart unnecessary levels of stress on myself—especially for things that aren't really stress-worthy. Like the Sunday New York Times. I thought paying $5 a week for the paper delivered right to our apartment door would not only be a nice way to start weekend mornings, but also right in line with my pursuit for all things nostalgic and of yore.

When I open the door and see the paper all nicely laid out on our doormat I feel lots and lots of happiness. And then I bring it in and realize I have to read the whole damn thing, and that's where the stress starts. In NYC, the Sunday Times comes in two parts, so we get half on Saturday and the other half on Sunday—which should make reading of said paper easier, but some weeks I don't finish and then it piles up. And up and up.

So, we had THREE weeks of papers stacked up on our little newspaper-holding-footstool (we've been backed up since Sandy), and I forced myself to sit down and go through the whole shebang today because I couldn't handle the papers looking mournfully at me anymore.

I feel so much better now.