I’ve always been a reader. I was the child who got “lost” in grocery stores because no one noticed me grabbing a book and sitting down in the magazine aisle to read. My brother tried to warn me at the start of high school that walking around with my nose in the Mists of Avalon was likely to get me dumped in a garbage can by illiterate seniors. It did not. I think he underestimated my feminine wiles. Which is a fancy way of saying my boobs, and generally symmetrical face. No garbage cans for me. Not of lot of what you might call “friends” either. Lots of books, though.
This weekend I was talking books with friends and realized, not for the first time, that I don’t read books anymore. I read a lot of articles. I read essays. I read a few blogs. I read Facebook status updates. But I can’t read books.
The fact is, I’m an addict. That same little girl sitting alone in the magazine aisle, lost in whatever fantasy world my author of the hour cooked up for me, that little girl still exists. Like a demon, she takes over my life at the drop of a well turned phrase.
Then all is lost. Real life falls to the wayside. I don’t show up to work. As it happens, my work is mostly tending to the lives of two smallish people who are not elves. When I book, I don’t care about my tiny not-elves. I feed them one handed while my face is in a book. I don’t so much clothe them as sort of chuck clothes in their general direction. Appointments get missed. Diapers go unchanged. My driving becomes more erratic.
I’m a mess on book. A dirty, dirty mess with no self control for however long the high lasts. The first step is admitting you have a problem, right? Well I’ve been clean for a lot of days, now. I don’t know how many. I know I miss it.
I miss books.
As soon as my kids are a titch more self-reliant, I plan to fall well off the wagon. There will be a pile of books awaiting me, to land on. My husband will forget my name. I will forget my name.
I’m totally okay with that.
Acceptance. That’s another step, right?