Much like going to therapy slash “doing the work” slash self-care as religion, it felt to me like having a robust reading list was right up there as a “do it or risk being ostracized at worst or suffer severe side glares at best” necessity. Unfortunately for me, I am not a good reader. As in, I may be too committed of a reader. Hardly a rare breed, but I certainly identify as the type to put aside all else until said book is completed, including feeding and bathing my children (not that we bathe them much, but that is beside the point).
Mistake number one was accidentally seeing some quote somewhere (and there are many, so watch your back) about the many virtues of reading. I don’t disagree; however, like all sincere pleasures, it does come with drawbacks if indulged lavishly. It seemed like everyone was keeping a running book tally. If something can be scored, measured, tracked or recognized, I will compete like it’s the Olympics with democracy on the line.
Mistake number two was audio booking. Not that this really counts as a mistake, it just makes it far easier for me to read (listen) at all hours of the day and night when I should realistically be doing something else. I say “should” because though I learn a great deal, escape to great places, think grand thoughts and meet new faces, I’ve also noticed a significant downturn in creative output when I’m reading a lot. This is because the best ideas, or at least the ones most ticklish to my own funny bone, arrive while doing something else: washing dishes, walking the dog, running, waging war on a butternut squash (ever tried to skin and dice one?? Good luck). When I use those spaces for audiobooks, there goes any prayer of free-thinking.
I would understand if you argued this might be the best for society at large to curtail some of my more cringe-worthy ideas, but the habit of creating is therapeutic. Thank you very much if you’ve ever watched a video of mine on Instagram when you know very well it was bad. It probably was but it just as likely saved my mental faculties that day, if you’ll allow me a touch of melodrama. And thus I have come to understand that therapy doesn’t have to be the kind where you go and talk to someone who, in all likelihood, does genuinely care about you but also realistically has to pay her bills too.
I’ve done this kind of therapy twice before and gained valuable insight both times. At least, that sounds like the smart and grateful way to say, “I think I had a couple aha moments, but can’t be sure.” In my core though, I just know I’m far too checklist oriented (the above reading list as evidence) to be an ongoing client. I also found it maddening that all the big feelings, which were glorious candidates for a deep psychoanalytical dive, seemed to surface on all the days I wasn’t scheduled for therapy. What was I grappling with on Monday now that it’s Wednesday? Who can say.
And so I found it relieving when Elizabeth Passarella wrote an essay in her latest book, “It Was An Ugly Couch Anyway,” on also not being in therapy. Ironic, yes, that I felt a grand invitation to stop pursuing therapy, and a book tally…from a book. Thank you, Universe, for another delightful paradox (said without a hint of sarcasm and more than a touch of awe).
Now I read like I’m following a menstrual cycle. Or the moon. Or the tide. Or someone please stop me before I make more ill-fitting metaphors. Once in a while I’ll feel a pull to read. It’s usually when I’m craving a feeling to match the season (of the Earth and/or of life). It’s summer, so I want breezy brightness, humor, snark and women who write without an ounce of apology. I want Nora Ephron. I didn’t know this until I saw the hardcover on the bookshelf of our Smith Mountain Lake rental house. (An aside about vacationing as a parent having tried several options: The only way to feel truly like you’re on vacation, in the relaxing sense, when trying to holiday with needy youngsters, is to travel somewhere with ample other family members, ideally grandparents. They will pick up the tab - you can try to chip in financially but they won’t hear a word of it - and will boundlessly pitch in with any and all kid-related requests in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you’re gouging them out of a favor. They are grandparents and other doting relatives. Ergo, the grandchildren are like crack to them. Admittedly I’ve never done crack, as you probably guessed. You may actually come home feeling refreshed, as I did.). Back to Nora. She wrote “I Feel Bad About My Neck” when she was 64. I wonder if she was also listening to The Beatles because if anything is a perfect soundtrack to her self-deprecating revelations, it’s that.
I sprawled out on the deck while 8-month old Winnie crawled and flopped back and forth across my belly. I started reading the actual pages. It was nice. And it lasted a whopping five minutes because 1) Winnie made a lurching ninja leap toward the unblocked stairs and 2) I remembered I had already purchased on Audible last summer and would vastly prefer to listen. Even if I weren’t a diehard listener, I would heartily recommend the audio version. Nora narrates it herself and that’s all you need to know. I started it on Sunday and finished it Monday, the next day, not the following week (not that this is an impressive feat or anything given that it is only a 3 hour listen at 1.2x speed, the perfect pace for this particular book if you’re wondering).
As far as genres go, the personal essay may be my favorite. It’s the type of book I’m least likely to get cranky over if forced to stop prematurely when say, a toddler in my home absolutely NEEDS something, like food or water, because the author isn’t deliberately chaptering off into exasperating cliffhangers. And as Nora says herself, real life is far more ridiculously ludicrous than anything made up.
She discusses aging but not in the patronizing way you might expect, hence the title. She reminds us that “parenting” wasn’t always a verb. She tells her life story in tiny, bursting anecdotes that somehow add up to the most vivacious narrative. Of marriage and Manhattan apartments she says this: “What failure of imagination had caused me to forget that life was full of other possibilities, including the possibility that eventually, I would fall in love again.” As someone who inadvertently lives and dies with fantastically far-fetched ambitions, I desperately needed the reminder. I will fall in love again, and next time, let it not be with becoming a viral, hit-making powerhouse on Instagram. Far too fickle and unrequited if you ask me. She has a no-nonsense, just pluck-up-the-food-off-the-floor-and-toss-it-back-in-the-skillet Julia-Childness.
I know you may be thinking that the antidote to binge-reading, and the gateway to becoming a paced reader and maybe just maybe a more measured human would be to physically READ a book. To sit down, like I tried to do on vacation, and actually hold one in my hands. This could work. The eyes can only race back and forth in so many sprints before gently closing in exhaustion. Built in self-control. Since making more content for the world wide web however, I don’t find it remotely relaxing to look close-up at something at the end of the day, be it a television, phone or book. And how do you comfortably lie on the couch holding up a book in front of your face without arm fatigue? It requires more energy, which is probably more admirable if you can pull it off, but I can’t so I continue coughing up the $16/month Audible subscription with tremendous ambivalence (ugh, Amazon. But first, let me just order that thing…). Occasionally I check Libby first because I’m such a gentle and community-oriented person when it suits me but have been known to remorselessly bail if it’s more than a weeks’ wait. How quickly I become a voracious consumer all over again when faced with having to exercise patience.
There have been two times when reading genuinely saved me. The first when I was newly postpartum with my daughter and the second when I was newly postpartum with my son. What initially felt torturous and emotionally debilitating, being woken at all hours of the night to nurse them, gradually became a sweet reward. I could settle in with the little blobs and pick up where I left off. I looked forward to their crack-of-dawn cries. With my daughter, it meant more more more Malcolm Gladwell (Blink! David and Goliath! The Tipping Point!) With my son, Richard Osman, who has convinced me via The Thursday Murder Club series and its septuagenarian sleuths that skipping right ahead to my seventies might be the happiest path forward. I’m eagerly awaiting the fifth installment (is there one coming soon??) and will accordingly clear my schedule when the time comes.
Recs
Just one today because I’m sure I and you don’t need more stuff, but I am sure you will like this. Joe’y coffee!!
As you can probably tell, I’m using affiliate links where I can (You know the spiel: doesn’t cost you extra but may give me some commission income. TIA!). Joe’y doesn’t have an affiliate link program, but I want to recommend it anyway because it’s just too good. After my kids were born and sleep was so sporadic, I found drinking coffee was a strong no (haha, get it?). Firstly, and this is the whole, unguarded, snobby truth: I really think it tastes awful unless it’s the good espresso kind at high end cafés. Secondly, the opportunities to sleep were completely unpredictable and I wasn’t about to eff ‘em up with a caffeine spike. Joe’y is just so much more gentle! I’m a convert. It doesn’t make me jittery, tastes better (like unsweetened cocoa, which when paired with oat milk is quite heavenly), is ready to roll in exactly one minute and thirty seconds and you can get by with a mug, handheld frother and nothing else (assuming you already have a microwave and/or stove). My method of choice (it’s highly sophisticated so hold on tight):
pour 1 cup of oat milk into favorite mug (mine linked above)
heat in microwave ‘til hot, ~1 minute for me. Or get really fancy and use the stovetop. whoa.
plop 1 teaspoon of joe’y mix into milk
froth your face off
drink. ahhh.
In case you’re wondering, they have paid me nothing for this. The scoundrels! But also, I didn’t ask, so it’s fine.
Hope y’all enjoyed celebrating the favorite dads in your life! We love ours and they love him.
With gratitude,
Alli
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