The New Yorker and Me

Over the past few days, my exercise has amounted to a short walk to the mailbox.

I’ve been awaiting, you see, the print edition of The New Yorker, to which I am now subscribed. 

Today, the mailbox is empty, but for a lone, ripe copy of the magazine, The New Yorker. 

Ha! My walking has paid off. 

I trudge towards home in my neoprene rubber boots, blaze orange hoodie, fingerless gloves and unshaven face; I have not showered in three days. 

I wave at my neighbour, Dave, driving by in his silver GMC pickup, and I wonder if he’s caught a glance of the magazine I’m thumbing through; The New Yorker. 

That’s right, I’m a subscriber to The New Yorker. Not only the digital edition on my iPad Pro 12.9, but the print edition too. I find my eyes appreciate the physicality—the luminescent glow of the ink-laden page—and of course, I look great reading it too. 

I imagine future editions lying on the coffee table, the side tables, and in my office—where else can I leave them around my house for guests to notice? 

A friend calls while I sit cross-legged on the sofa reading the latest edition of The New Yorker, attempting to ignore my children. Would you kids please keep it down? Daddy’s reading The New Yorker. 

My friend asks what I’m doing, and of course, I tell him I’m subscribed to, and reading, The New Yorker magazine, in print. 

“Oh, so you’re an asshole now,” he says. 

I laugh loudly at his wit; my friend understands. 

Folding up my copy of The New Yorker, I place it gently on my lap and engage in a lively conversation—my mind ablaze with the fresh breeze of literary stimuli blown upon its embers. 

Tonight, I will shave and shower. 

I’m a subscriber to The New Yorker, you know.

Photo by Jack Bennett