I'm not ashamed to admit that I have a crush on an entire section of the newspaper and if I could turn any inanimate object into a person, it would be the Week in Review section of the Sunday New York Times.
After I turned it into a person, I would take it out to dinner, bring my A-game and spend the entire meal hoping it would kiss me at the end of the night. After that first kiss, we'd make mad, passionate love following an evening of good wine and better conversation. I'd cook breakfast in bed the next day, both of us curled up in pajamas, the slow sounds of Sunday morning interrupted by the softly rustling newspaper strewn over the covers.
Reading Week in Review while snuggled up next to its human personification would be near-nirvana. He would distractedly stroke my hair with one hand and hold his book with the other. He'd be wearing an old college t-shirt and navy blue sweat pants. He'd get up to refill my coffee and use his spectacles as a book mark.
I think Week in Review would totally be the glasses-wearing type. He'd also have brown hair.
When he came back with my coffee, I would propose marriage. He would accept. For better or for worse. In edits and in health. For as long as we both shall write.
Because I love Week in Review like I love few other things. It's edgy when you want it to be ("Sorry, Sunnis"), it's smart without being overly snide ("Rarely Win at Trivial Pursuit?") and it takes on the things that have happened all week long with just the right amount of brazen bravado.
And, besides, who can forget Raul Castro?
It makes you think with creativity and context. And, really...who really asks that of us anymore?
Week in Review makes my world a more thoughtful, more interesting, more provocative place; my Sunday mornings, perhaps, the most information rich and deliciously decadent of the entire week.
We would grow old together, holding hands on the front porch while our children and then grandchildren chased fireflies around the yard. His thick hair would be shot through with silver and I'd cook breakfast for both of us while he sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. Life would move at a pleasantly waning pace, every morning a Sunday morning filled with questions, answers and endlessly fulfilling conversation.
Readers, lurkers, commenters, friends: What inanimate object would you turn into a living, breathing person? And why?
After I turned it into a person, I would take it out to dinner, bring my A-game and spend the entire meal hoping it would kiss me at the end of the night. After that first kiss, we'd make mad, passionate love following an evening of good wine and better conversation. I'd cook breakfast in bed the next day, both of us curled up in pajamas, the slow sounds of Sunday morning interrupted by the softly rustling newspaper strewn over the covers.
Reading Week in Review while snuggled up next to its human personification would be near-nirvana. He would distractedly stroke my hair with one hand and hold his book with the other. He'd be wearing an old college t-shirt and navy blue sweat pants. He'd get up to refill my coffee and use his spectacles as a book mark.
I think Week in Review would totally be the glasses-wearing type. He'd also have brown hair.
When he came back with my coffee, I would propose marriage. He would accept. For better or for worse. In edits and in health. For as long as we both shall write.
Because I love Week in Review like I love few other things. It's edgy when you want it to be ("Sorry, Sunnis"), it's smart without being overly snide ("Rarely Win at Trivial Pursuit?") and it takes on the things that have happened all week long with just the right amount of brazen bravado.
And, besides, who can forget Raul Castro?
It makes you think with creativity and context. And, really...who really asks that of us anymore?
Week in Review makes my world a more thoughtful, more interesting, more provocative place; my Sunday mornings, perhaps, the most information rich and deliciously decadent of the entire week.
We would grow old together, holding hands on the front porch while our children and then grandchildren chased fireflies around the yard. His thick hair would be shot through with silver and I'd cook breakfast for both of us while he sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. Life would move at a pleasantly waning pace, every morning a Sunday morning filled with questions, answers and endlessly fulfilling conversation.
Readers, lurkers, commenters, friends: What inanimate object would you turn into a living, breathing person? And why?
