My lower lip is chapped because I like to bite on it when I’m lost in thought or a book. I run my tongue over my upper lip when I concentrate on building things like LEGOS or stories.
I spent most of the evening draped over the couch in varying positions, my nose pressed into The Age of Miracles by Karen Thompson Walker. I read and I read and I read until the sun had set and I had no choice but to turn on the light, which means it’s almost time to put away the downstairs book and go to bed to read the upstairs book. I’ve been working on rearranging my sleep schedule to prepare for Tibble Summer, which means waking at 6:30 a.m.
I’m in the early stages of love, because of lines like this:
[blockquote sign=”Karen Thompson Walker”]It requires a certain kind of bravery, I suppose, to choose the status quo. There’s a certain boldness to inaction.[/blockquote]
Also, it reminds me of “The Ceiling” by Kevin Brockmeier in all kinds of good ways, ways that don’t feel copy-catty or derivative.
Spending hours reading a book feels like a form of decadence. The same kind of decadence that comes when you watch three episodes of “Dawson’s Creek” in a row. Reading tonight was heavenly. It took my mind off all the work I could be doing or the novel I could be working on or the Wisconsin election I could be worrying about. That’s a sure sign of a good book, it takes you someplace else. When I put down the book to turn on the light, I discovered I was hungry and ate some Peanut Butter Cheerios.
And that’s how I’ve ended my thirties. When I wake up tomorrow I’ll be FORTY! and that surely marks adulthood. Right?