Gentle E-Reader

     The E-Reader has a lot going for it. It's something lightweight you can easily carry and use while you pass the time away waiting on line or in traffic.  It helps rid the world and overflowing bookcases of the bulk, waste and demand of pulp paper output so it's 'green'.  Many popular authors now publish some of their work exclusively in the e-book format so you have access to books you wouldn't ordinarily have. And if you love to read, you literally have a virtual library at your fingertips.

So why am I not in love?

To get me interested in anything is easy. To get me to commit is another thing entirely. When I first heard about e-readers (online of course) it made my heart go pitter-pat because it had all the hallmarks of something that would appeal to a dedicated reader. I've been reading online for over fifteen years now and thought I could make the smooth transition but then I'd look longingly at my overstuffed bookcase and felt a twinge of guilt and confusion.

When I was very small, I used to snuggle up to my dad after dinner every night and listen to him read aloud from one of his paperbacks. They were in a pile on the floor next to my parents' bed and were as reliable a presence to me as my dad himself. I didn't care much for the subject matter (he was on a Hal Lindsey kick for awhile) but early on I associated reading with warmth, security and closeness.  I think too, because my dad's always been a big guy, I also associated it with heft and ponderousness in a very good way.

I like all things big, probably because I'm big myself and have known that all my life. I swoon when a big man envelops me in his arms and pulls me towards him. I luxuriate when I'm sitting in my friend Catherine's big Sebring convertible and it's as if I'm in a rolling comfy couch. I surround myself with heady scents redolent of far off lands and ancient spices and appreciate the decadence of a down comforter so heavy I could give myself a hernia just pulling it up around me as I drift off to sleep, I enjoy the weight of a platter full of delicious food as it's lifted and carried to its home as the centerpiece at the holiday table, and I love the weight, heft and texture of a book in my hands. So something with an e-reader has been lost in translation, I fear.

One girlfriend was not a reader by any stretch of the imagination before she bought her Nook. Now she has over fifty titles downloaded and gets as excited as a little girl when a new title comes out and she has access to it in 60 seconds. Of that, I AM envious. Still....

Another friend trusted me to read his unpublished book which is on a subject I adore and and I've tried to get into it several times and have failed miserably.  I'm ashamed of it, to tell the truth.  The story itself is riveting and worthy but if I can't even feel paper in my hands, I'm at a genuine loss. It's as if I've lost one of my senses and it alarms me.

I have other friends who are authors who encourage me to self publish my novel with Amazon and I feel a sense of betrayal to my as yet unfinished work, my child, my legacy.  It's probably silly because they're making money with every  download while I'm agonizing over physical pages when I could be sipping prickly pear margaritas at a resort across the country and laughing about my initial reluctance.

I think eventually, I will give in to a point. I'll buy a Kindle (or even an iPad because the possibility of endless applications is very appealing to this girl who likes options), but I can't turn my back on my simple literary roots. I'm still the same kid who found comfort hanging out in the stacks at the library and used to surreptitiously sniff the pages for that heady pasty gluey scent that is still as alluring to me as any expensive perfume. I'll never forget reading something forbidden under my parents' bed while I ignored them calling for me to come to dinner. A recent epiphany is, as much as I like to eat, I have to admit I like to read even more.

Books, the printed word especially, are food for my soul and when I want truffles and champagne, a Hershey bar and a diet Coke are just not the same thing.

Champagne Tastes and Teabag Pockets

I wake up when my cat tells me to. This is okay because my current work schedule (meaning none) is very flexible. Wonton likes to find the squishiest parts of me (barring my elbows, scalp and collarbone this is not too difficult a task) and goes to town with the dedication of a Turkish massage therapist and the delicacy of Freddy Krueger. My husband finds it endlessly entertaining to see a loud blonde of very ample proportions in a coral babydoll being pinned down to a mattress by a six pound cat.

The cat, when satisfied with her ministrations climbs up and chews on my earlobe purring sweet nothings with hot tuna breath. She loves me. She really really loves me and in spite (or perhaps because) of her wicked wiles, puncturing punishing inclinations and appalling fetid breath, I indulge and adore her.

I have a penchant for luxurious and often decadent things like clothing (particularly lingerie) which in my size is a challenge to find, jewelry, liquor, kitchen gadgets, household objects, gourmet delicacies and evidently, adjectives. When, not 'if', my book (and ambitiously, a series) is published, that will also extend to travel and art.

My mother used to love to tell the story of me as a toddler accompanying her window shopping at a jewelry store and upon being asked which ring I liked in a display case, chose the most expensive object in the place.  I have an uncanny and at times disturbing knack (or perhaps innate style) for picking the best of everything, but rarely possessed the means to obtain them. My mother called it 'Champagne Tastes and Teabag Pockets'

This isn't, however, limited to objects. I've always had ridiculously high expectations and standards for just about everything, especially friends and the rare lucky men whom I fall for.  Thankfully, fortuitously for me, they don't. I cherish and am devoted (often disgustingly sappily so) to everyone I love and I do love all my friends, even the ones I haven't seen for years or only see on Facebook with a passing 'like' or tagged note. Some of my friends find this characteristic of mine endearing. Some find it dismaying and aren't shy voicing their disapproval of this dogged loyalty. Maybe it's a character flaw. I don't know.

 A lot my appreciation has to do with admiration and gratitude for the beauty and art of people and things (Wonton is the former, not the latter). If I'm brutally honest, much of it has to do with qualities in those people and things I desire to see in myself.  They, all without exception, inspire me.

I am, like a crow or baby, attracted first to the shiniest brightest substances.  I can't deny it.  But it's what's beyond the gilded, whimsical and superficial that keeps me. Subtlety is often inexplicably lost on me, of this, I'm acutely aware but I do look into the depths, into the mirror too, of what lies beneath.

I can only hope that when weighed in the balance, I too am not found wanting.