The Sunday Times.

A few months ago at work, I came across a fresh, still-rubber-banded copy of the Sunday Times. Someone had abandoned it at their table at the cafe and for fun and in hope of coupons, I broke it open.

I pulled apart the color-splashed sections, my fingers getting stained with dusty ink as I parceled through. I glanced over the headlines and came across an interesting comparison article about the housing market in California and took the bait.

The experience of laying the paper out, peeling it over, and having the dramatic fall create a gust of air that blew my curls back for whatever reason enthralled me. I held my folded paper comfortably in one hand and perused the article as I sipped drip coffee from a mug in the other.

In light of this scene, my coworker immediately giggled and imitated my stance dramatically popping one hip to the side and sipping his own coffee.

What started as me on the hunt for coupons became the realization of a little delight lightbulb illuminating my brain.

Reading that newspaper made me really happy. Holding a tangible publication in my hand was so grounding to the otherwise anxiety-inducing activity of reading the news. I’ve tried keeping up with the happenings of the world via apps or looking online and it’s always an attention-yanking shit show that leaves me exhausted.

While reading bad news on a page as opposed to a screen doesn’t change the reality of what’s reported, it does, at least for me, make it easier to consume.

I was amazed at how much content the Times squeezes into an issue each week. I oohed and aahed at how aesthetically they laid out the Book Review and Style and Opinion sections. I feasted on the photography and made mental notes of the articles I wanted to go back and read. I picked out a few of the recipes in the Cooking section to try at home.

Without hesitation, I took the paper home to enjoy the rest of it and because it brought me so much joy, I vowed to buy myself a subscription for my birthday that year.

And I did.

My paper awaits me and my cup of coffee on the mid-week mornings I have off from work where I spend hours flipping through, reading what I find interesting, skipping what I don’t, and losing the battle with the crossword every week.

And with that, I am officially 300 years old.