The most important meal...

I treated myself today. In years past, this might mean I splurged on a new handbag or a sweater or some other ridiculous thing that I convinced myself I just had to have. This year, it's coffee and a bagel. 

I don't know what it is about the act of walking into my local Starbucks to get a cup of their Christmas blend. Or what makes me so love walking into the bagel place down the block for my favorite: a toasted everything bagel, with scallion cream cheese and a slice of tomato. Maybe it's because it gets me out of the house (I work from home; escaping now and then keeps me from climbing the walls). But it's probably more that it's something I rarely do, making it a real treat. I have a coffee maker at home, after all. And bread. 

It's amazing what I won't pay for these days. My cousin, who very nicely read some of my ramblings here last week, mentioned that he's having a tougher time springing for a cab. I find myself walking all the time now, too. Or taking the bus. Or hopping the subway. Or just not leaving the house.

Earlier this fall, I purchased a mirror for over my mantle. Well, that's not entirely true. The truth is my mother bought it for me. She came into New York, told me I should buy X mirror in X store, and then handed me the money for it. She's like that: decisive, capable, generous. Because I am lacking in some of these qualities, I didn't follow her directions until months later, on a Wednesday when the boyfriend was at work.

It was only after I'd handed the man the money for the mirror and he'd taken it off the wall that I realized just how big the thing was. I asked the salesman how much it would cost to have it delivered. He quoted me $45--but that was only to deliver it to the building. If I wanted it carried up to my fourth floor apartment, I'd have to pay much more--basically doubling the mirror's original sticker price. 

Instead, I carried the thing--which is about my height and twice my width--the eight blocks or so home, stopping at every street corner to catch my breath and readjust my grip. It was an ordeal, to say the least: the wind would pick up and turn the flat side of the mirror into something like a sail, causing me to spin in a circle against my will. Strangers stopped on the street and gawked. A nice man in a Doe Fund uniform offered his assistance, but I refused. Determined and also a little bit angry (at the mirror store, not him), I said I'd be fine. Of course, three blocks later, I realized my error: I was not fine; my arms were throbbing. By the time I wrestled the mirror through my building's front doors, I was drenched in sweat under my winter coat. When I finally managed to get it up the four flights of stairs and into my actual apartment, tears were running down my cheeks.

But now, looking at it, I don't remember all that (or the fact that I couldn't raise my arms above my shoulders for nearly a week afterwards). Instead, I think about how righteous I was to forgo delivery service, how spunky and--dare I say it--how capable. It's a mirror, sure, but it's also a source of pride. And that's more valuable to me than all the handbags in Saks.