I’m a bookworm – reading was my first addiction and remains my drug of choice. So when the now-ex made a particular book-related suggestion — “Let’s get rid of all the books” — I felt like Cuba during the missile crisis.
This was before we decided once and for all to dismantle the unibrain, back while we were toying with downsizing to tiny-house living and staying together.
It’s a slight exaggeration, more of a minor embellishment, to say that books are my primary and often only luxury, and I am death on dog-earing and dote on dust jackets. Books are Important in my house, wherever that house is.
But my guys, even when they’ve been readers – and “my guys” basically means about five real relationships, so not a broad sample there – are down on my books. One who never made the “real relationship” category – sorry, Dave – told me once that reading was antisocial.
It’s not, but it’s adulterous. Good reading is flat-out cheating on your significant other, and it’s perfectly acceptable. You can sit or even stand there fully clothed, motionless and silent, and have your brain obscenely entwined with another’s naked thoughts. Pure sin.
So I kept the books, and gave them all a thorough but gentle cleaning before the move. I sit surrounded by them now, and I feel at home. And loved, and sinful.
It’s a good day.