Not just yet...

Reading has been a part of who I am for as long as I can remember. I learned how to read when I was four years of age, moving onto novels when I was five. While all the kids my age were learning how to read, I was in a corner playing on a computer. I was able to negotiate with my parents that during the “necessary absent of progeny” time, which they shortened to N.A.P. time, I could read as opposed to sleeping. I was even able to extend my bedtime an extra half-hour by requesting I be allowed to read in bed.

My grandparents were thrilled, as were my parents, that I loved such an intellectual pastime. To further encourage this habit of mine, my grandparents constantly sent me books. I received novels in various languages, on different topics, with little notes from them on the inside cover for my birthday or Christmas. Over the years, they have remained the foundation for my book-collection, going with me wherever I moved.

The first time I stepped into a library, I didn’t know where to begin. My mother had a bag that I filled with the maximum number of books I was allotted. She eased my frustration when she told me that I could come back to the library when I finished the books I had. I think she underestimated how fast I could go through them, because we were back at the library in a matter of a couple days for more books. I was devouring every single page of text at a rapid rate, which caused my parents much disbelief. So as to verify I actually read a book, they flipped through a few pages, asking me questions about the book’s plot. The expression that was on their faces when I regurgitated it to them was priceless.

In secondary school, I raided the library on a daily basis. I would checkout my two allotted books for the day, returning them the following morning, checking out another two books. I was “that” kid who walked around school with her nose shoved in a book. I couldn’t help myself: I loved to read. The students hated me in my literature courses, because we’d be assigned a book to spend several weeks on, and I would come into class the following day having already read it. Then so as to add more salt to their wounds, I would reply to inquisitions about the book with a sly smile and a simple “Read the book.”

Of course, looking back on things, I realize that reading was my escape from life when things were hard. I survived my brother’s illness and subsequent death by daily escaping into another world for a few hours. My father’s affair and parents’ divorce was accompanied by several hundred pages, sometimes over a thousand a day. Even when I was without electricity last fall I passed the time by reading a book accompanied by lantern-light.

When I began college things changed and I realized just how stubborn I was. I didn’t like being forced to do what I had done for fun up until then: reading several hundred pages a night. I know people found it overwhelming to suddenly have that much “work”. For me, it wasn’t that it was difficult, but that it was “work.” The difficulty also arose that if I found a book that I liked, I couldn’t read it because I would deviate from my schoolwork. Read a novel, or read my textbooks? It was admittedly a decision I hated having to make. Was this a part of adulthood that I will always have to deal with:  to put real-life over a paged one? I was continually asking myself this.

Up until that point I was non-discriminatory in choosing the work of one author over another: I just read anything. Then, I fell into the group of people who will read a book, devouring it whole, and then wait for the next book by the author of the book they enjoyed. Of course after waiting for that book to come out, sometimes well over a year, they are finally at the midnight release for the book. They take the anticipated book home, create their ideal reading environment, and begin to engorge themselves upon the pages, the tapestry of the author. Before they know it, the experience of reading the book for the first time, something that cannot be replicated, has come to a close.

That was my routine the past few years. I knew my time for leisure reading was precious, as it something that I didn’t have much for anymore due to my studies. I got my copy of whichever Harry Potter book was out at the time, cracked it open, and before I knew it the moment I had waited so long for was over in a matter of a few hours. Of course once I finished the book, I would read it again, but anyone who has experienced what I’ve described can agree that nothing can compare to the first read-through.

Why am I writing all this now? Why am I taking the time to wander aimlessly through the pages of my memories in my mind? It is because for the first time I’ve done something new and I am trying to make sense of it. I waited months for “The Host” by Stephenie Meyer to come out. I’ve read all her other books, devouring them as soon as they’ve hit the shelves. When “The Host” came out a couple weeks ago, I bought it the day it was released. However, instead of devouring it the moment I got it through the door, I placed it on my bedside table, and there it has remained unread.

Why haven’t I read it yet? I’ve had opportunities to. I spent one weekend cleaning my flat, thinking oh, I’ll climb into bed and read it once I’ve a spotless flat. Instead of doing what I had planned, I found myself looking at it wistfully and going, not just yet. Not just yet? What am I waiting for? I can only postulate that I’ve finally grown to truly appreciate a good book. I no longer just appreciate the escape it provides, nor do I just appreciate reading it after much anticipation. No, now I appreciate that I can only savour a bottle of fine wine for the first time, once. Am I ready to pop the cork? No, not just yet.

Egads!

Well I finally found a use for that potent-as-hell bathroom cleaner. I spent half the bottle wasting it on this mofo, (after squealing like a girl and hiding in a corner for a few minutes of course):

It took it awhile, but it eventually went down for the count. I would’ve used my hairspray/lighter method, but I wanted to get my security deposit back for the flat at the end of my lease.

Oh yeah, I’m going to be checking my flat for these things for weeks now. Did I mention I’ve a bit of arachnophobia? I’m still waiting for the “flight” adrenaline response to subside: this shit is better than caffeine on a narcoleptic.

Tear Gas

Apparently bathroom cleaners are becoming more and more potent these days.  A few sprays of the one I was using today and my eyes were on fire and my lungs felt like I stuck my head in the smoke from a campfire and inhaled a few times. I finally remembered that I had my old chemistry goggles still, so I had to break them out to finish the simple task of cleaning the bathrooms in my flat. Furthermore, I took my goggles off and saw that the fumes from the cleaner changed the pigment of the ink that I had inscribed my name on them with from a navy blue to a bright fuchsia. Screw the chemistry goggles. With the way my lungs are still burning four hours later, and with what the mere fumes did to my goggles, I’ll need a HAZMAT suit to clean my bathroom next time. However, they seem to be a bit out of my budget, so I’ll just have to change cleaners.

I Didn't Lift a Finger

I walked into work yesterday.

“He’s got some news for you,” my co-worker told me. Of course he did.
“What, did the jackass tell my boss now? That he needed to come in later and still leave at the same time, reducing his hours again?” I asked her.
“Oh, I’m certain he’ll tell you,” she replied a sly smile on her face.
“Hmm, ok,” I said, returning to my work.

Later on into the shift I was focused on getting the part of my work that had a deadline done. During this I was just conversing casually with them both.
“Well,” he began, “while we are sharing news, I’ve got some news of my own.”
This should be good. I’ve been waiting for this the past couple weeks.
“After much discussion with my wife, I’ve decided to go back to school,” he continued, “of course, I can’t work my hospital job, and this one, and do school at the same time, so I turned my two weeks in today. My last day will be February 8th.”
A huge ass grin comparable to the Grinch was fighting its way to the surface of my face. I kept staring intently at my work so I could continue my facade of nonchalance.
“I feel bad,” he said as if he was probing for a reaction from me, “this is such a cool gig.”
I fought the impulse to roll my eyes. I was used to his bullshit and I didn’t even give a damn that he was going back to school. For all I knew it was an excuse as well.
“Well,” I finally said, trying to keep the elation from my voice,” you got to do what you got to do.”
I then returned to my work.

After he let the lab my co-worker turned to me.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d get him out of here,"she said with a little bit of awe slipping in her voice.
“Nope, I wasn’t,” I looked at her smiling, “and I even went on holiday.”