Reading Is Fun

I joined a book club. Not so much because I enjoy reading, but because I thought it would be a good way to meet people. AND since I’m an overachiever disguised as an underachiever, I’d like to feel as though I’m getting something out of reading.

Remember those public library competitions in grade school where you got rewarded for reading so many books over the summer? How they checked, I don’t know. If they went by your library card, you could’ve just checked out a shitload of books. It’s not like they asked you questions about the books because you could read anything that you wanted. Although I suppose if you were a nerd like I was, one who liked the freedom and feeling of competence and young adulthood that came from riding my bike (yes, I know, physical activity. . . I even walked there on occasion--this was B.efore C.able) to the library and checking out and returning books on my own (akin to your first checking account), you probably wouldn’t lie about how many books you read. It’s just now after becoming a jaded adult that I’d even think of lying. I am evil. So anyway, as a reward, you got stickers or stars or coupons to Burger King or something like that for reading. Stuff that eventually ended up in the trash after being forced to clean your room--I was more of a Mc Donald’s fan (the only way I could be convinced to be baptized)--and because I could never keep up one of those sticker books, which probably means I’d make a terrible scrap booker. The stickers weren’t even cool like the scratch n’ sniff kind that I wanted to steal from my cousin.

So, to make a very short story (more of a comment really, “I joined a book club” should’ve sufficed) much longer than it needs to be and to get out of not only finishing the book, but also doing laundry before everyone wakes up, I feel in some way that I should be rewarded for taking up reading again . . .without the stickers or coupons. I especially chose this book club because there’s not so much pressure--1 book per month--and the organizer writes for this site, so I’m fairly certain there won’t be any Nora Roberts or John Grisham-like books.

You’d think that me being a procrastinator and trying to commit to this, I would find the time to read this month’s book. I’m halfway through it, but, of course, I’ve waited until the last minute to finish it. The meeting is tomorrow night! It’s not War and Peace; it’s only 242 pages. Yes, 242 pages (small type, though). I’ve tried. Though the imagery the author creates is vivid, I just don’t like it. I don’t care about the characters, it’s not compelling, it’s just way too much detail about a people and things I don’t care about. Here’s an excerpt, you tell me:

“There was the pungent smell of the plastic shower curtain and the disintegrating soap. The toilet bowl was agape, with a dissolving piece of toilet paper in it throbbing like a jellyfish. The faucet was sternly counting off droplets.”

242 pages of that!!!! It's like listening to Natalie Merchant. Just too rich. I think what I need is something more Suzanne Vega. Something lighter.

So, of course, now it feels like an assignment. But I realize I CHOSE TO DO THIS. I thought I could finish it by reading it during my commute, but what signals a bad read to me is that it makes me motion sick. I don’t feel like vomiting when I think a book is good.

Next month we’re reading a book I’ve already read. A book I liked. So, I’m thinking that I could just un-join until next month. Do they let you do that? Probably not good to do that…I’ll start some laundry now and try to finish it in the laundry room. As a bonus, I may even get to this morning's paper before it's stolen.

UPDATE: My, how things can improve with a dream sequence of boy on boy action. I just don't understand why it took 98 pages to get there.