Readers, I am a geek. It’s not easy for me to admit, and I’m not looking to be cured, but just telling you is so cathartic. I know, you read this blog about my fabulous house and my amazing job and my happy, well-trained dog and my general contentment with the state of the world and you think, I envy that girl her life.
But the truth is much more sordid. I’ve kept it from you, and for that I apologize. I just wanted us to get to know each other a little bit, to try to see each other in a more complete light, before I told you the whole truth. Is that so wrong? I was afraid you would turn your back on me when the whole thing finally came out.
Deep breath—I’m a book nerd. I guess I knew it from the time that I was small; I used to read the text on bags of potato chips to my parents from my booster seat. In school, I hid good books inside my textbooks as early as third grade. Oh, I tried to fit in but there was no hiding my expanded vocabulary and easy ability to tease out context clues. They are the mark of a reader, and my teachers and classmates had my number.
My sick, antisocial behavior has only grown worse over the years. I tell you this only because I love you; about seventy-five percent of the time, I’d rather be reading than talking to you. I pick out purses based on their ability to hold a paperback. I hoard books and magazines, because I get light-headed and panicky when I have nothing to read. Some of you have received those anguished phone calls from me at the beginning of the weekend, begging shamelessly for books. It’s not easy sometimes, being friends with a person like me.