Forays into Literary Perusing
See, I'm a voracious reader. (But I'm going to just cancel out the dork factor by adding that I'm also a voracious shot-taker and booty-shaker). I read so fast that it began to be an expensive habit. Until I recently discovered the gloriousness that is the Nashville Public Library system. Laugh if you must... They have 21 area branches that are guaranteed to have any book you want. And if they don't, they'll order it for you. For free.
Faced with this kind of literary mecca, I tend to overextend myself. As soon as I login to their database, I morph into the likes of a starving refugee at a Golden Corral. I put lists and lists of books that I've been dying to read on request. And before I know it, I get an email telling me that I have "9 books being held on reserve at the Green Hills Branch". There's no chance in hell I'll be able to read that many in my three weeks of allotted time. But aim for the moon, right?
To be honest, I get a little embarrassed going to the library. Because I feel that individual reading selections are very personal things. And the library workers are all either condescending intellectual types or grandmas. Both are intimidating in their own right.
For example: I like many different types of books. Ranging from historical biographies to "beach reads". No biggie. But there's one skinny red-headed prick with a goatee who avidly scans both your face and your selections as he checks out your books. And makes it obvious as to whether he approves or not.
John Adams [NOD]. Angels and Demons [NOD]. The Devil Wears Prada [SUBTLE EYEBROW RAISE].
I want to suckerpunch him. Because really, who is he to judge someone else's personal reading selections? It's none of his business or concern. At least people are READING in this age of video games and on-demand. Maybe, just maybe, if he took his head out of his ass for two seconds, he'd manage to get a girlfriend who could fill him in on the finer points of chick lit. And he wouldn't be so bitter.
The grandmas are a completely different story. They're always super sweet and attentive and act grateful that you're even in the library at ALL...to the point where I just want to hug each and every one of them. But I dread getting in one of their lines with a scandalous (to a 70-year-old) book in my hand. I inexplicably feel like I have to protect their sweet innocence. Like yesterday...I manage to find Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner, a book I've been wanting to read for a while now. And because Ethel is the only one at the checkout counter, I have no other option than to slide it across for her to scan. She takes a long, squinty look at the title and proclaims, "You enjoy that now, Honey. It looks very...interesting."
I wanted to shrivel up. And beg her not to think I'm a whore in search of raunchy sex techniques. Instead, I turned crimson, politely thanked her and slunk out the door.
But looking on the bright side, I could've been checked out by the emaciated carrot-top creepo who would not only have raised his eyebrows, but probably wiggled them lecherously at me as well.