We are almost done with our unpacking, yet there are still tons of boxes in our spare room. They contain very precious cargo, one of my favorite things...books. Pages filled with adventure, mystery, horror, romance, drama. Words overflowing about musicians crazy life's, how to clean almost anything, what to expect when you're expecting. Tales of drug abuse, shopping abuse, life abuse. Tutorials teaching gardening, cooking, beautifying. I could get lost among the adventures and escapades. I have a severe addiction to these little beauties. Paperbacks, coffee table, how to's...all of them. And wouldn't you know it, I fell in love with a fellow bookworm. So between the two of us, we have mounds and mounds of books. And it pains me that they are sitting in cardboard caves when they should be broken free and displayed.
And here lies our problem. We have no bookshelves to put them on. I think we may have found some that will work in the little room where they live, so I'm excited to bust them out and see them in all their glory once again.
Do I have time to read all these books? No. Do I have time to even read one book? Um, no. I'm still trying to get through the first chapter of the book Lanie gave me about 3 months ago ("Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity." Like I said, I love all kinds of books and am always into reading the story of all types of different people, even promiscuous ones.) The problem isn't that it's not interesting, intriguing and riveting. No, the problem is that I just haven't found a spare second to settle into the couch, tuck my feet up underneath me and read for a good hour. I used to do it all the time, pre baby. I would start a book and be so sucked into it that I'd be done and picking up a new one within the week.
But Rob and I have big dreams. Once the house is unpacked and everything is where it belongs, we hope to find our way back to the lands of make believe, gritty truths and a place where anything can happen.
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