The Paper

My husband knows me so very well.

Last week, as a surprise, he bought me a subscription to The Globe and Mail newspaper. It’s billed as “Canada’s National Newspaper” or something, but it really is. Generally, it’s full of actual news from across the country and internationally, instead of the ten-pound weekend package of ads that The Toronto Star has become, or the tabloid horror of any of The Sun‘s papers. And I refuse, absolutely REFUSE, to look at that stupid National Post because of its association with that arsehole Conrad Black.

The Globe does not deliver on Sundays, but yesterday’s paper, with all the goings on yesterday, never got read. And so, after a nearly-sleepless night that even Tylenol 3s couldn’t fix, I sat down this morning on the floor with a few cups of strong, sweet coffee, and began to read. (Lucy feels that she may take an interest in world affairs too, apparently, as she marched about on the paper throughout most of the first two sections.)

As I flipped through, I read stories on veterans, on the mess that is Iraq, on the imbalance of wealth in the chocolate industry. I read stories of war, of people trying to do good in this world, of progress and health and technology. And I gained a bit of perspective. After yesterday’s tears and disappointment, it was a way of saying here’s what else is going on in the world, to show me that I do not have it so bad.

But even more than that, I began to relax. The ticking and spinning of my thoughts, that kept me awake most of the night, began to slow. The pounding headache became less violent and painful. The tension in my shoulders relaxed. Something about lounging around on a Sunday morning, reading the paper and unwinding, always makes me feel a little more at peace.

That BDH, he knows. He’s a keeper.