Confessions of a Bibliophile

I have a vivid memory of an incident that happened in my 7th grade math class. For the first couple months of class, I would hide whatever book I was reading behind my textbook. Clever, I know.  The math teacher (I don't remember her name only that she also coached track and didn't wear the same outfit twice that year) got exasperated with me and finally said (quite loudly and in front of the class) "School is not the place for reading!"

I've always been a reader. From what I could tell, I was taught using the look-say method that has since been canned in place of phonics. I say this because I remember being taught the Dick and Jane books in kindergarten. I don't really remember learning to read or practicing. When I was in 5th or 6th grade, the school tested everyone's reading ability and I was told that mine was at a college level. Immediately my respect for college students dropped because I read a lot of Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary, Goosebumps and Sweet Valley High and if that was college reading then something was terribly wrong with American college kids.

All through upper elementary and middle school, I got chastised quite a bit for reading in class, reading while walking in the hallway to class and during lunch. And then in high school, teachers just stopped caring about that. One told me "As long as you get good grades, I don't care what you do." Ok then. Read To Kill A Mockingbird during a lecture in American Government? Yes, thank you, I believe I will.

These days I still love to read but it is, of course, hampered by other things. Pesky things like laundry, cooking, and the raising of small humans to adulthood.

I have so many books that are on my list to be read. Stacks of them.

Exhibit A:

After I took a picture of this stack, I remembered I forgot to add The Elegance of the Hedgehog and then I discovered my copy of Eat, Pray, Love (which I also think of as Eat, Drink, Pray but that is probably in the self-help section. Or possibly memoir.) which for some reason reminded me that I never got around to finishing Atlas Shrugged, a veritable sin in the eyes of my father and sister. This may be 1/3 of the the books I plan on reading. Or 1/10. As you may recall, I never actually paid attention in math class. Most of it didn't make sense. Why were so many people getting on trains and passing each other anyway? The x was always getting lost and I was always dividing things by pi.

And people wonder why math is so unpopular.

My stack of books keeps getting bigger and bigger for one reason.

Exhibit B:

This book right here. I both love it and hate it. I love it because it's well-written, humorous, interesting, thought-provoking and surprising. I hate it because it's taking me so long to get through it. The writing is not laborious, I don't have to keep a dictionary nearby. It's just that some ideas in it are so momentous and new to me that I often have to set down the book and stare off into space, giving my brain time to absorb what I just read. Sometimes I'll read sections of the book aloud. Kate will pay attention for a minute and then go back to coloring or flipping through a book. Matt's eyes glaze over after about 10 seconds (which may be one of three things. Either he doesn't care about that subject. Or he hates me reading long passages out of books anyway - a defense mechanism developed over 11 years of being married to an avid reader who likes to share. Or it's simply the sound of my voice. His brain shuts down after hearing me babble away for awhile. Could be a combination of all 3...). Jack is the only one who likes to join me on my quest to know things. He's on his own quest, this boy after my own heart. In fact, after reading aloud sections to him about atoms and electrons and such, he has told many people what we've discovered. His little buddy over lunch during a playdate. An older gentleman at the bank. My mom. They're all so appreciative, I'm sure. On the surface, the looks they give me seem to be filled with confusion and then boredom. Really, though, I know that those looks say "Great job parenting." Or possibly "You're a fantastic person." And also "You're really pretty."

It's been about 6 weeks and I'm on page 256. Even as I type that, I am filled with shame. Which is ridiculous, really. Where's the race? Who cares how long it takes me to read a book? Why can't I just read for enjoyment and self-betterment? Am I worried that the President of the League of Above-Average Readers is going to deliver a letter, threaten to take away my membership and hand me a first grade reader instead, sneering that such books are more appropriate for people like myself?

Now I'm nervous.

Reading for pleasure is stressing me out.