Once More Unto The Breach
Tales of my second go-round with breast cancer before the age of 40, and everything since.

Turning the Pixel

I am finally facing up to the fact that foot-high (or higher) stacks of The New York Times are a symptom of my perpetual lack of time to do one of the things I love: read.

I’m conceding that I can no longer rationalize the waste: of the newsprint I am not reading, and of the money I am most definitely spending to support a habit I have involuntarily, regrettably, and long ago broken.

Yesterday, I forced myself to read the entire Sunday paper online. And lived to tell the tale.

This morning I read the entire Monday paper online. (It look much less time.)

I can’t remember the last time I read the entire Sunday paper.

I also can’t remember the last time I read the paper two days in a row. On the days they were actually published, that is.

I am not giving up the hope that I will be able to return to reading the printed paper at some point.

I am just finally admitting that I have no idea when that point will come, and that it is irresponsible and wasteful and guilt-inducing to delude myself into thinking that it will come tomorrow. Over and over and over again.

Instead, tomorrow will be the day that I cut back to Sunday-only delivery, which will be enough to preserve my online access while still providing a weekly fix of fingertip-staining ink.

And to help me through what I expect will be a painful withdrawal, I will slowly make my way through the last remaining stack of papers in my living room.

As it disappears, so too, I hope, will my guilt.

 

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