David and I subscribe to both the New York Times and the Seattle Times. A national newspaper and our local newspaper. And by subscribe I do mean seven days a week, every day of the year, delivery of the physical papers to our front porch. Lately the papers, delivered at the same time by the same man from his car, have been arriving late. Too late.
(Long gone are the days of actual paperboys between the ages of 10 and 17 doing a few streets on their “route” in their neighborhood on bikes or by foot.)
Since the new year started our papers have been late. Yesterday, Saturday, the papers didn’t arrive until after 8:00 AM. We are up at 6:00 AM. David kept saying he was going to call the NYT and complain. I said it might be better to complain to the delivery guy.
Today I walked into the kitchen at 8:20 AM and I see David at the kitchen table having his morning espresso and reading on his iPad and the first thing he says to me (after “Good Morning” of course) was, “The fucking papers aren’t here yet and I have to leave for my gym by 9:00 o’clock!” His “morning experience” was being ruined. So I make my cappuccino, put on sweatpants & a sweatshirt, slip on my yard shoes, and I walk outside. Frost. Everywhere. It may be 8:40 AM but it’s still cold in Seattle. But I don’t mind. I think about waking up in Palm Springs. Finally, after pacing back and forth for ten minutes, I think to myself how absolutely nutty most people would think this is. Nutty that we don’t want to read the news on our laptops or phones or iPads AND SUPER NUTTY that I’d wait in the cold to scold our “paperboy.” Yet there I was.
David finally did leave for his gym. A minute or so later my phone rings and it’s David saying, “I saw him, he’s heading south on Flora just past Eddy delivering now.” David didn’t want me to miss him. At 8:57 AM his car pulls up at our house and he gets out with the two papers. He sees me, likely as a lone cranky nut drinking coffee in the street when it’s freezing cold out, and looks chagrined. I approach with my iPhone held up showing the time as 8:57 AM and me pointing at that time. I just said this is way too late. He started to say something and I said and it was way too late yesterday also. It’s been late all year and it seems to be getting later. I told him we have been up since 6:00 AM (well, one of us has) and in our minds this is a full 3 hours late. I told him we could cancel and read it on our devices if he can’t do better. I did not tell him how unlikely that was to ever happen, it’s a completely different experience, one that we both don’t like. Nor did I remind him that I’m one of the households that mails him a significant tip along with a calendar for the next year every December.
There’s no point to this other than me amusing myself with the clear vision of David and I getting more cranky and more grumpy as we age. If we’re like this at 62 what does 71 hold in store?
