It is Saturday night, the much awaited, heralded weekend evening when one is meant to trip the light fantastic and frolic and such. I did have plans; in fact, I had three available sets of plans, but, instead, I am snuggled beneath blankets in my bedroom, reading. I read all afternoon. I made a delicious salad using all the leftovers and soon-to-go-bad greens (sounds appetizing, eh? but it was – ask my roomies, D and A) and ate, then shaved and showered, got RIGHT back into cozy sweats and under blankets and back to my reading.
The older I get, the more I love my bedroom. And doing nothing.
Earlier in the day I finished Shovel Ready by Adam Sternbergh. Loved it. I’ll be blogging about it soon.
Then came the daunting unto paralyzing task of deciding what to read next. I lay out the top choices from the – I hope you are seated – 200 books I have piled in my room/office bat-cave basement suite in order to determine which would be next. I feel just awful having to choose and hurting he feelings of the others, some of which have been waiting impatiently for quite a while for their turn. And now that I’ve started blogging about what I read, they are even more eager to get to the front of the queue.
As you can see, this is hopeless! But, here’s what I finally decided – and believe me – I love EVERY ONE OF THESE BOOKS – even though I’ve not yet read them – still, I’m SURE I love them. I love them because someone made them, someone dreamed them and birthed them into being and someone loved them enough to represent them and publish them and – I LOVE THEM! And it breaks my heart that there are so many waiting for me. I read only eight books in January, which means, if I continue at this rate, only two-thirds of this layout can expect to be read in February. And, let’s be honest, I’ll be buying more books in February so . . .
Okay, enough, I have to get back to reading. The choices – yes, two – Alan Bradley’s The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, which I am already loving and underlining and page-marking like a mad thing – and, like the men I prefer, it has an old-timey British accent and a fruity sort of erudition; and Gary Shteyngart’s Little Failure: A Memoir, about which – only about fifteen pages in – I burst into an “I’ll never be this brilliant” sort of weep. Also, like the men I prefer, it is bringing me great pain at the same time it gives me much joy.
PERFECT DATES! It’s my own little menage a trois, and I couldn’t be happier.