I don’t own any of the “So Many Books, So Little Time” paraphernalia marketed to librarians and other book lovers. I’m not sure whether it’s because those items are so common as to be no longer fun or because they sound a little boastful.
A love of reading belongs in the same tag as being a natural early riser (an oxymoron, in my opinion) or preferring broccoli over brownies–preferences often mistaken for virtues, which they clearly are not. In each case, the individual behaves in the manner most comfortable to him/her. Also, in each instance the reader, early bird, or vegetable aficionado is rewarded–with entertainment and knowledge, the appearance of a great work ethic, and nutrition. Isn’t virtue supposed to be its own reward?
My husband presented my daughter and me with tickets to last night’s performance of Wicked. We set out for the event quite early, wishing to avoid any anxiety associated with traffic or parking. Arriving well ahead of time, we settled into our seats with knitting (daughter) and a just-published novel (me). During intermission, the novel came out again, and I immersed myself almost instantly in a pivotal middle chapter–so much so that, when the curtain began to rise again, signaling the continuation of the wonderfully entertaining production, I admit that my first instinctive reaction was “Awwww, guess I’ll have to finish this later.” At least I didn’t say it aloud.
Love reading? Yes. Proud of it? Sometimes, not so much!
