Mental Musings from
The Marginatrix
...because sometimes I just need to share my thoughts.
As many of our fellow students planned their spring break trips to Florida, specifically Fort Lauderdale, we joked about driving down there ourselves. After a while, It became apparent that a few of us realized that we weren't exactly joking, though we all agreed that Fort Lauderdale didn't exactly appeal to us. But a break from the cold certainly did. So our discussions turned more and more toward the mechanics of how we could make this trip a reality, with the very real time constraints of a mere week to drive from Connecticut to Florida and back. I had family living in Atlanta so we determined that would be our first overnight stop. Once we had arrived there, we were directed toward Panama City with its white sand beaches and its relative proximity to home. It was a great choice, but that's not really what this story is about. We decided that once class let out for the week, we would each drive to our respective homes to pack the necessary equipment, tents, swimsuits, cash, and so forth. The following morning, everyone met at my house to take my car. My birthday often fell over spring break and this year was no exception. We celebrated the night before leaving. My brother gave me a paperback collection of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide series. I was so excited to read it upon my return! My friends arrived the following morning and I showed off some of my gifts. One of them grabbed the set of books and suggested we bring it on the trip. I argued, "I haven't even read them yet!" She insisted she'd been wanting to read this series too. We could both read them on the trip! I insisted I didn't want to take my new books on the trip because they might be damaged. She assured me she would be careful with my new books, and put them in the car despite my vehement protests because, of course, I was being ridiculous. Full disclosure: I have been accused of having an anal retentive personality and when I was younger, I was a bit of a control freak. But imagine OCD dialed up to eleven when it comes to books. First and foremost, I'm a bibliophile. I love words, I love the way words are strung together to form sentences, and I love the way sentences are woven together to create works of art. But beyond my love of words that make up the content of books, is also a love for the physical object of the book. Never has there been a more perfect creation. While other kids dreamed of owning a big house, a fancy car, expensive clothing, traveling the world, and all that kind of stuff, I dreamed of owning a house with an extra room that could be turned into a library, complete with a rolling ladder affixed to shelves towering over my head. In elementary school, our librarian explained the Dewey decimal system along with rules for caring for books. Books were precious, and as such, it was absolutely unacceptable to write in them, fold or tear out pages, or in any way alter them. I'll be honest. College was a rude awakening when I learned that, not only was it okay to highlight text, but also it was expected because that was what good students did. As we drove south, I watched in horror as my soon-to-be-ex-friend methodically read each of my books, bending the bindings backward and out of shape, folding down the corners of pages to mark her spot at each stopping point, and leaving them lying around the back seat of the car for anything to happen. I begged her to take better care of my gift. She scoffed at me for being OCD, but this went way beyond a need for perfection. It was more about my desire to not have my books abused. Eventually, I gave up, averting my eyes every time she picked up one of my books, hoping beyond reason that they would miraculously survive the trip. When we returned, she handed me the set, saying something like "great series." Did she say thanks? I honestly cannot remember. Numbly, I nodded. Gingerly, I picked up the set, which now looked like it had been passed through a lending library for illiterates. I handled it like it had been infected by the Ebola virus. Eventually, I worked up the courage to read it, and it was an amazing series, but once I had, I brought it home and left it there so I could forget about how it looked. And yes, I forgave my friend, because even though she had done something thoughtless and selfish, she wasn't actually a bad person. A few years ago, while perusing my sister's bookshelf, I saw my collection there. I pointed it out and she asked if I wanted it back. "Oh, no," I assured her, "but maybe I'd like to read it again." I did, and it's still an incredible series, but shortly thereafter, I returned it to her saying, "You keep it." Thirty years later, I still can't imagine allowing a less-than-perfect set of books to join my collection. I'm not sure what that says about me, but at least I can proudly say that I don't hold people to the same standards as I do books. October 29, 2019
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Elizabeth J. Connor
|