A New York Minute
Time is going way too fucking fast. It’s been going a bit too fast most of my adult life. But then I had a kid, and it seemed to speed up. Now I have two kids, and it’s sped up more. When I mention this “Wow, it seems like time is going faster since Roo was born” phenomenon to people with older kids, they invariably say “Oh yeah. And just wait ‘til they’re both in school. Then it will really start flying by.” Please don’t say that. You’re scaring me.
Events that occur once weekly make me feel keenly the vertiginous speed of my life. My Saturday morning yoga class is here again. Wait. Head under knee over other knee. Wasn’t I just in this bizarre position a few days ago, on this very spot in this very yoga studio? Who is stealing days from my weeks? Where are they taking them, and can I have them back?
In the last few weeks I’ve realized the worst culprit in this time-stealing conspiracy is not my children, nor my weekly schedule. It’s the New Yorker. That’s right: Conde Nast is somehow making my already speedy life go by even faster.
My Old Man and I subscribe to more magazines than we should, but we tend to stick to monthlies. Except the New Yorker. It’s our only weekly, and it has always come once a week. Or less often. And this has always given me plenty of time to enjoy the magazine in the order I love to consume it: first, skim through and check out the cartoons; then read the light, short bits toward the front; then pick one of the longer essays and savor it in all its lavishly detailed and elegantly written glory. Then, if there’s time, maybe read the fiction.
Lately, though, the New Yorker has started arriving with fewer and fewer days separating the last issue and the new issue. Lately, I swear, it’s been coming every three days. I feel like I’m in my own private periodical Twilight Zone. Somehow, despite the fact he has the same number of children and other periodicals to deal with as me, my Old Man seems actually to read each issue as it comes down the pike. (He also manages to complete the Sunday Times crossword every week, while I, despite my perpetual promises to help him on those couple of tricky clues up in the right corner, never find a minute to so much as look at the thing.) Lately, this New Yorker onslaught has gotten so bad that I can’t even fucking keep up with the cartoons.
I have, however, found time to look at each and every cover. That will just have to satisfy me until the overachievers at Conde Nast return to their regular publication schedule.
Events that occur once weekly make me feel keenly the vertiginous speed of my life. My Saturday morning yoga class is here again. Wait. Head under knee over other knee. Wasn’t I just in this bizarre position a few days ago, on this very spot in this very yoga studio? Who is stealing days from my weeks? Where are they taking them, and can I have them back?
In the last few weeks I’ve realized the worst culprit in this time-stealing conspiracy is not my children, nor my weekly schedule. It’s the New Yorker. That’s right: Conde Nast is somehow making my already speedy life go by even faster.
My Old Man and I subscribe to more magazines than we should, but we tend to stick to monthlies. Except the New Yorker. It’s our only weekly, and it has always come once a week. Or less often. And this has always given me plenty of time to enjoy the magazine in the order I love to consume it: first, skim through and check out the cartoons; then read the light, short bits toward the front; then pick one of the longer essays and savor it in all its lavishly detailed and elegantly written glory. Then, if there’s time, maybe read the fiction.
Lately, though, the New Yorker has started arriving with fewer and fewer days separating the last issue and the new issue. Lately, I swear, it’s been coming every three days. I feel like I’m in my own private periodical Twilight Zone. Somehow, despite the fact he has the same number of children and other periodicals to deal with as me, my Old Man seems actually to read each issue as it comes down the pike. (He also manages to complete the Sunday Times crossword every week, while I, despite my perpetual promises to help him on those couple of tricky clues up in the right corner, never find a minute to so much as look at the thing.) Lately, this New Yorker onslaught has gotten so bad that I can’t even fucking keep up with the cartoons.
I have, however, found time to look at each and every cover. That will just have to satisfy me until the overachievers at Conde Nast return to their regular publication schedule.
posted by E. | 10:20 PM
3 Comments:
You are absolutely right about the New Yorker arriving every three days. (Fuckers! It's too much pressure!) I haven't opened last week's yet, I don't think, but I looked at a few cartoons for the new issue.
I have to keep an issue in the bathroom in order to get through it in a few weeks—toothbrushing becomes more languorous when I'm trying to finish an engaging article or story.
Listen, why don't you swing by my crossword blog on a Saturday night and steal some answers? Then when the paper comes, work through some or all of the crossword before Your Old Man touches it.
Languorous toothbrushing. That image warms my heart.
Orange, you're such a dear. I think I will drop by and steal a couple of answers some Saturday late. It would, I'm sure, impress the hell out of my Old Man.
I feel tthe same way too.
Ah, that is life
Check out mine at www.about-attitude.blogspot.com
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