Even though I don’t look so happy I have tired frog eyes (that’s a thing), it’s finally a 50 degree day in New York City, but dropping to 20 tonight, so layers are still a necessity here! Granny schoolgirl chic is my favorite kind of look on days like this. Pair an on-trend patchwork skirtall (Forever 21) with a cotton sweater with a leather & stud pocket in a sand shade (Kara), then add an asymmetrical color blocked cardigan in vivid hues like orange and a midnight blue (Kara). Throw on some suede riding boots (with or without fleece-lined leggings depending on your geography!) & you’re ready to rock & roll (or ideally, grab some chocolate-chocolate chip Haagen Dazs with whipped cream & rainbow sprinkles at the mall & shovel it in your face like I just did).
Once upon a time, I was lucky enough to travel to Cambodia, drive through a phantom tollbooth, do some detective work with a girl named Nancy, be in awe of a girl named Cam’s photographic memory, be a part of a club of babysitters and a sleepover club, hang out in abandoned boxcars, meet five people in heaven, travel 20,000 leagues under the sea, live in a castle for 7 years, learn about the southern USA during the slavery era, learn about magic with a gypsy woman named Brida, hang out with a sweet award-winning pig, interpret various maladies of numerous people, fall in love with a hundred men (whoa), and embrace many of life’s lessons from a brilliant alchemist. It’s been a wonderful 28 years of a life full of imagination and intelligence, new perspectives and introspection; and I never needed to physically leave the place I was in.
Since you’ve probably already figured out what I’m talking about, let me dive right in. When someone tells me, “I hate reading for fun!”, I genuinely have trouble understanding them. I pride myself on being quite adept at putting myself in other people’s shoes for a myriad of things, but this one thing? I DON’T GET IT! But then again, I hate football, eggplants, and reality show celebrities, & no one gets that either. For me, reading is an innate love carried over generations on both sides of my family (somehow skipping my mom & brother). My dad started me off early & the love affair took off right from the get-go. The ability to escape into other people’s characters, their minds, other realms, cultivate and nurture my own imagination and creativity is the greatest asset to an introvert like me. Externally, I’m an affable, sociable, strange person, but when I need hermit time, books are my favorite partners. They offer an intangible, inexplicable, but incomparable comfort that is akin to cuddling with your pet or having your mom take care of you when you’re sick; and thank God for that because my dog is moody and sometimes, so is my mom.
I’m a crazy quote-monger (if that’s not a thing, it is now); I like to see how similarly or how differently someone else can put my feelings to words, & when words fail me (it doesn’t happen often, but my words are not quite quotable, perhaps more bleep-able at times), someone else’s lines do just fine. I also truly wish I could meet some of my favorite authors, but only a handful are still alive (Paulo Coelho, Mitch Albom, Mindy Kaling, Jhumpa Lahiri, JK Rowling, BJ Novak, Cecelia Ahern, & Nick Hornby to name a few), & so I have to settle for imagining Dickinson/Hemingway/Milne’s lives, Rumi & Kahlil Gibran’s real theories on love, Shakespeare’s creative process, Thoreau’s experiences, Frost’s decision-making processes (wink wink), & especially so, Plath’s thoughts (I believe Sylvia & I are kindred souls, minus the level of heart-wrenching depression and the whole suicide situation, of course). Though all have done a remarkable job of recording the aforementioned in beauteous poetry, prose, and stories, you can bet that my ideal dead dinner party guests would most definitely include those people. Recently, I asked to join a friend’s book club because it was something I had been wanting to do for years and because apparently, I’m okay with inviting myself to things I see on Facebook statuses. To find like-minded bibliophiles, but with their own interpretations of a work and its characters is like free cone day at Baskin Robbins to me (comparing the happiness here, not necessarily the satisfaction of reading a book versus the satiation of inhaling a large chocolate chocolate-chip with whipped cream & rainbow sprinkles).
As long as I can remember (& I’m like Dumbo with the memory..& maybe also some of the self-doubt), one of my favorite dreams has been to own a house that has a large mahogany library full of slouchy armchairs, a crackling fireplace, a ginormous [hypoallergenic] rug, a bay window/nook with a view of the pool guy (jk jk), Marshmallow Man sized & consistency-d throw pillows, and thousands and thousands and millions of books. Old, new, classic, nouveau, fiction, non, biographies, autos, children’s, adults’, hardcover, paperback, leather-bound. I want a place to travel when I can’t, to breathe when I can’t, to flop on the floor and leave everything behind when I can’t, basically to just fly away when I can’t. My other favorite dream is that those newfangled battery-powered contraptions won’t render my smooth covered, musty fragranced, underlined, worn to the spine, dogeared, page filled, ink misprinted companions obsolete. Fine, admittedly I do own a Nook, but in my defense, it was after everyone else, it was a gift, and I fought a long & valiant battle against it. Plus, I can’t do the heavy-lifting required of me if I took all the books I wanted to with me everywhere I go.
Anyyyhoo, I’ll end this with some of my favorite titles, maybe some coincide with some of yours, maybe you have other suggestions, please let me know either way! And thanks to whoever coined my favorite term to elementary [school] & beyond; “Reading is FUN-damental.”
It’s a beautiful love affair and it shall last ’til happily ever after.
champagne & cookiedough 