The Picnic, or: A Entirely Avoidable Situation That We Keep Choosing
Every year, usually sometime in May, I make the same mistake. The sun comes out with a conviction it hasn't shown since October. The temperature reaches something genuinely pleasant, not the provisional mildness of March that tricks you into leaving the house without a coat and then withdraws without apology, but real warmth, the kind that makes the outdoors feel like somewhere a person might reasonably spend time. And I think: a picnic. I should have a picnic. I would like to say I don't know why I keep thinking this. But I do know why. It's because the picnic, as a concept, is one of the most appealing things the human mind can produce. The reality is a different matter entirely. In the imagined picnic — the one that happens in the part of the brain responsible for optimism and poor decisions — everything is straightforward. A blanket on a gentle slope. A wicker basket containing things that travel well, whatever those are. Wine at the correct temperature. Bread that ...
