my new yorker "subscription"

upon my return to sf, i took over the apartment of friends who upgraded in space to accommodate them living together as a couple. i wouldn't call my place luxurious, and certainly not commodius, but it's cute, and i have no real complaints (except the bathroom sucks -- i can barely sit straight on the toilet without my knees hitting the bathtub. and it holds moisture like a ziploc bag, meaning i have to keep the window propped open, which makes for naked, chilly moments each morning as i wait for shower steam to fill the room).

but the best thing about my place has nothing to do with the structure itself. the day i took the keys, a copy of the new yorker awaited me. i confess i let a month go by before telling my friend that her subscription was still being delivered to her old address, but when i finally came clean, i discovered she was receiving copies too.

after a couple months though, the honeymoon ended. i approached the front door each evening imagining that the mailman had slipped the newest edition through the mail slot, but as i opened the door all i found were catalogs and credit card offers. each morning as i rode the streetcar to work and each evening as i rode it home, i scanned the car with green eyes looking for fellow passengers enjoying the magazine by which all magazines are measured.

misery ensued over those next weeks so with my mental health in mind, i decided to purchase my own subscription. but as fate would have it, an issue showed up the next morning. and the following week, the next issue appeared as well. i spoke to my friend and she confirmed all was still well with her subscription.

elation returned. the commute emerged as the highlight of my day. 30 minutes to and for where i could stand, read, learn, and listen to music.

but on a return ride one evening, something happened. i stood without reading material as i'd finished every article of the current issue on the trip to work. so without occupation, my eyes wandered coming to a pause at a young lady's magazine: the new yorker, one with a cover i'd not yet seen. i stealthily checked the date and indeed it was the next issue.

i scurried home from the train stop eager to pick up the newest issue only to be confronted by coupon books and paper copies of bank statements. sure i was dismayed, but i could wait one more day for it to arrive. but one more day turned into a week and still no magazine showed up. and the same the following week. and such has been the pattern since. a new yorker arrives, then a hiatus where nothing shows up for the next week or two.

and so i'm stuck. missing issues of what i love to read more than anything else, yet feeling like the freeness of my partial subscription is just enough to justify me assuming the full yearly cost.

oh, what to do?