Confession: I am a book drunkard.
I have an insatiable appetite for books. From Historical Fiction to Sci-Fi and everything in between – if it’s printed, I’ll read it. Before smart phones made the bathroom experience significantly less boring, I was reading air freshener cans and the warning labels off a tube of Crest.
The first book I remember was my mother giving me a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Not the cute, a la Disney style version, either. You know, the one where Cinderella’s step sisters hack off their toes in order to squeeze into the slipper. That always seemed her style – why gently introduce violent, uncomfortable items when she could shove you in head first? Whether intending to give my nightmares or warn of the dangers that befall princesses when associating with men, all she succeeded in doing was opening the floodgates of my imagination.
(My most recent spoils)
The most distressing part of moving in with Ben was consolidating my library. Books were crammed in every accessible area – from bookshelves, totes underneath my bed, the closet, and tubs stacked in a tall entertainment chest. They were in the bathroom, the mudroom, hiding in end tables and on window ledges. Split decisions were made, as pausing for a second longer would have had me in a hoarder-esque meltdown when confronted about having to part with some of my babies.
This is the result:
They’re homeless until more bookshelves can be built. The shelving in our home is already occupied with a mixture of hardbound encyclopedias, medical books, and a smattering of machining and engineering books. As much as I want to covet such prime real estate, it can wait. I am simply thankful to have someone who wants to build me bookshelves.