As a modern woman with a post-graduate degree and someone who has curiosity for a broad range of world news, I love the New York Times. To be sure, the editorials lean left … so do I. But it’s the intelligent journalism that speaks to me.
Until the holiday season rolls around.
Then the Times doesn’t speak to me – indeed the newspaper rubs my nose in the fact that I am not within the demographic it aims for. Nowhere near it. Every page is filled with ads for handbags “starting at $19,000,” watches for which they won’t even quote a price, and diamond jewelry that costs more than the GDP of a small African country. To peruse Christmas gifts, you now need an appointment.
So during what ought to be a time that fosters a spirit of kindness and generosity, my connection to the world suddenly turns me into an impoverished Scrooge. I ask my husband in disbelief, “Is there really someone out there looking for a 4.3 million dollar necklace from Harry Winston to put in his wife’s stocking?” “Obviously,” he replies without lowering the sports section, “or Harry Winston wouldn’t be running full page ads.” Then I whine, “What about me? What about one little promotion for fuzzy slippers at Kohls or men’s pajamas at Target?”
All this time I’ve felt included – an integral part of a high-minded discussion on politics and the environment, only to be blindsided by the reality that my daily paper happily takes my subscription money, but secretly views me as an impoverished Little Dorrit. From now until the New Year it’s morning coffee with The New York Post!