Is this scary, or not?

This is going to be a totally random post, but it's a rainy, sleepy, random kind of Tuesday, so . . .

Our paper stopped coming this weekend. We forgot to pay. Actually, I probably forgot to pay, or forgot to put the bill on JudyBat's desk, or some combination of the two. Bottom line: The paper was not on the doorstep Saturday. Or Sunday. Or Monday. Or today. And here's what frightens me: I didn't care.

Keep in mind that this is the paper that employs me, that prints my stuff, including my name, which always gives me a perverse little thrill every time I see it. But it was kind of nice not having to creep outside and cringe inwardly at the latest bit of bad news from Iraq or random detail about the Pope's funeral or odd change in my sterling, perfect prose that the copydesk had made. It felt . . . liberating. Yes, I missed the comics. And the sports section. And my name. But I didn't really mind feeling out of touch (that's what the Internet is for, right?) and I didn't mind not having to read a magazine with my coffee (the Saturday and Monday papers are a waste of your 50 cents anyway) and The Boy enjoyed playing with the newspaper vending machine on our way to breakfast. The whole experience struck me as sort of life-affirming. Like proof that should I someday decide not to work for a newspaper, the world would still be an interesting place and my ego wouldn't be crushed.

Today, of course, I called the circulation department and paid our bill. Delivery resumes tomorrow.