In a bygone world, Sunday was a day of rest. It was sacred. In the workweek world, Sunday is a day for dread. It is where the rest of the week's anxiety pools up; it is the day that, before going to sleep, we must bathe in our fears. This tradition is also sacred, but now it is under attack.
A traditional Anxiety Sabbath is scheduled as follows:
1. A late rise followed by overeating, which stretches far enough into the morning, or early afternoon, to create a sense of lost time.
2. Pause. First hint of dread.
3. Consternation: Unnecessary chores.
4. Momentary resolve: Necessary chores.
"It's binge-drinking in an instant. It's like doing five or six shots, into your bloodstream, right away," says a guy who ostensibly means to discourage such behavior among young people.
So I saw my first bed bug in New York City this weekend and, thank god, it was not in my apartment. It was in a pretty bad place, though. On a bus, the M9, on the sleeve of the windbreaker of a man sitting right next to me and my kid and my kid's friend. We were with my kid's friend's mom, too, heading to their house to have lunch after karate class. (The kids are in the class, not us adults. Still, though, I've been watching. So don't fuck with me.)
There is no doubt that it was a bed bug.
AVOID MEXICO, says the front page of the New York Times now. (Due to swine flu, dontcha know.) Oh, panic everyone, panic! It's a flu!) Says the NY Times commenters in return…