Recently, about a month or so ago, I decided that I was going to read a little bit every night. Even if it’s just for a few minutes before bedtime, I was determined to make it a self promise, an act of hardcore self discipline perhaps, to follow through on this. So I started my mini-quest, among the other bigger quests in my life at the moment.

This task has been harder than I had originally thought it would be. I often come home completely exhausted, with fantasized notions of head hitting pillow with a blissful bang, and the last thing I want to do is engage my brain in more exercise. But I am also reminded everyday of how my bookcases are stacked high with newly purchased, awesome-smelling books that are just waiting to be broken into to. Fresh cover to cover goodness, untouched by any other human just yet, freshly done and wrapped. I have a long list of books piled high on every shelf waiting for me to go through them. And I secretly tell them, thinking they can hear me, “I know you’re there. I’m not ignoring you. I’ll get to you soon, I promise!”

And somehow, soon is never soon enough. After working approximately 50 hours a week every week, on top of wedding plans, family issues, and other unplanned life situations, reading a book just seems like a reward that should only be for the rich and famous. Or something.

So I finally broke down and made myself a promise. And when that happens, all hell can break loose before I break my promise. Heh. So for the last month or so, I’ve made an honest effort to read a little at least 6 nights out of the week. It’s gotten a little annoying to Dave because once his head hits the pillow, he believes the rest of the world should do the same… yes, even me who is right next to him with my bedside lamp turned on. Poor guy. He’s like “Zee light… zee liiighhhtttt… aaahhhh!!” And I’m telling him, “Just a few more minutes, promise!”

And then, after all this time, after “forcing” myself to get back into a hobby I thought I could never live without for so long, I am finally reading again. It is finally becoming addicting again. It is finally feeling like home again. Ah I love the feeling of holding a good book in my hands. I love going to lunch by myself every week reading a good book and eating a good dish. I love reading a few pages right before bed, all snuggled up under the covers with all the lights turned off except for that bedside lamp. How comforting.

The rest of the world can go on as fast as it wants. I’m reading my book.