The need to read

 

I read a chapter in a book last night and it felt like I had started doing my homework after being out sick from school for six months.

 

(It also felt good.)

 

I have a library book -- one book -- checked out, and I received an overdue notification. I've had it for so long that when I tried to renew it the website told me I couldn't, my renewal limit has been surpassed.

 

Have I read this library book? Yes, some of it. But not all. Certainly not even half.

 

It's so strange to me that I haven't been reading.

 

Because I used to READ.

 

I read a little bit earlier this year, as I think I've managed to finish 18 books or so in 2016. Several of those were young adult books.

 

But according to my Goodreads account, I haven't finished a book since mid-July. More than two months ago.

 

I don't know why I'm telling you this, except for that this is my blabbery blog and I tend to tell you guys a lot of things, and also, I don't know, I guess I want to process it.

 

Reading is so much a part of who I am that, without it, I feel strange. I feel as if the contents of my closet were stolen and I'm wearing someone else's wardrobe. Which means I'm surviving, I'm clothed, I'm fine. But I'm not quite me.

 

I emailed my friend Jill recently, Jill who's managed to find some 14 podcasts that she's had time to listen to, analyze, categorize. Jill who's managed to read, NO JOKE, 133 books this year.

 

I told her that her prolificness (prolificity?) impresses me. I then proceeded to tell her that I'm not doing anything with much regularity lately (other than pack suitcases, travel, unpack suitcases, repeat). Other than just recently starting to rewatch Bunheads and then Felicity, I rarely watch TV or movies. When the second season of Kimmy Schmidt came out, I told Alex he could watch it without me.

 

This not watching TV piece of my life I'm actually not complaining about. I sometimes think with disgust the number of hours I've spent in front of a screen, and kinda sorta wish I could take some of those hours back.

 

I've done some very recent blogging, and I've been writing prayers since June, but other than that my fingers haven't been flying across the keyboard in the name of My Novel.

 

I certainly haven't been exercising with any consistency, or this gut might be a thing of the past.

 

I have managed to get a lot of stitching done, but that's evident to me only because I look at all the projects I've done this year and see that it's been a lot. But I don't feel like I'm sitting down and stitching all that much. (Though I must, obviously, be.)

 

Anyway.

 

When I read that chapter last night, I wanted to read more. And I started a second chapter, but then I got so sleepy, I had to call it quits for the moment. Which was mildly aggravating, because I had to wonder: will I actually keep reading tomorrow? Because the thing is: I just can't predict my reading behavior lately, except that I haven't been reading much so I probably won't be reading much from day to day.

 

***

 

The weird thing is, I'm not (entirely) super jealous of Jill (read: I'll probably always be a little bit jealous of Jill, because she's a gem). Even though she reminds me of Taylor Swift, I'm still not (entirely super) jealous of her. I don't say this to say that Jill isn't worth being jealous over, because she's super cute and super smart and super funny. I just say this as a: "Hmm. Strange that I'm not jealous because jealous is like my go-to emotion."

 

Part of the limited jealousy is because Jill just has a great heart. I genuinely enjoy her company. She doesn't make me feel like a lesser person in any way. And when we get together we're just like, "Blah blah blah have you read this? blah blah blah and this? blah and this? and this? and this?"

 

And those are my kind of people.

 

But I guess the reason I bring up the jealousy thing is because I do really miss reading, so you'd think that someone who has time to read 133 books in a year (and is reminiscent of Taylor Swift to boot) would be someone I would envy greatly.

 

So this makes me wonder: am I in denial? Admittedly, I've been trying not to think too hard about all the not reading.

 

I suppose all I can say -- and propose for myself -- at this point is that, I guess I need to get back to the reading.

 

Tonight. Before bed. Book in hand. Get back to it. Get back to that which gives me life. Get back to that which doesn't fully make me Bailey, but which does help make me Bailey.