A person should never, ever visit the library on a Thursday, not if they want to have any kind of a productive weekend.
I had Big Plans for last weekend. I was going to burn some paint off the woodwork in the bathroom. Mulch down the few garden beds still exposed to the burning drought-sun. Maybe clean the house. Mow the dry, brown vegetation patch that used to be the lawn. Watch a movie. Knit. Ride bikes. All kinds of things.
Instead I read. Two romance novels, a couple of period mysteries, a fantasy novel, some modern literature, and a little bit of history. I read on the sofa with my feet propped on the dog-worn ottoman. Read in the back yard on my new vintage-style woven-strap lounger. Perched with a book at the kitchen table – just for a moment was the intent but I creaked when I finally stood up. I read in bed. At my desk. On the front porch. On the back deck while burgers grilled. I may have spoken to the Spouse and the Dogs once or twice. I know I fed the fish and the cat because they are still alive. Otherwise, it was the books.
If I happened to be in a place where I absolutely could not read, like say, when I was driving the car out to the Clarence antique/flea markets to find something to make into a bathroom vanity (failure – we accidently bought a beautiful piece of furniture we can’t bear to cut holes into) – if I couldn’t be reading, I thought about the stack waiting for me back at the house.
See, I have a small greed problem at the library that results in nice, tall, interesting stacks of books on the table at home. They let me check out 50 books at a time in the city library and I figure, why waste the opportunity? The Spouse and I meet at the café in the heart of the Central Library and have a nice lunch. After, he heads back to work and I, my full stomach, and empty book sack hit the stacks in this order: mystery, fiction, sci-fi. I break to check for things on the computer. Then, new fiction, new non-fiction, biography. They are all in the front of the building. I head to the back. Gardening. Knitting. Animals. History. Women explorers. All explorers. Sometimes, I trudge all the way back up to the front if I forget to pick up my stuff on hold. Finally, home with the heavy sack of book-goodness. I resist the urge to page through the top one at red lights. Mostly.
When I visit the library on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday I can be rational. I am In Control of the Reading. But a Thursday is so close to Friday (T.G.I.F.) that I simply settle in. Surrender to the stack. Wallow in the inky stink of well-thumbed library books. I like to flick the pages as I read. I like to prop the spines on my stomach as I lounge. I like to carry a small stack subset from place to place when I am nearing the end of one and know I’ll need another.
It is Thursday again. I am down to the last picks of the stuff from last week. A cozy-mystery in a long running series that I find annoying and compelling. A new Victorian-era mystery. Book two of a sci-fi series. A book about beekeeping. Some literature thing I yanked off the new book rack that I’ll probably like. The trick is to Stay Away from the library today. I would really like to get something done this weekend.