in which i reflect and bore you

I've been reading voraciously since December. It started with a Steve Martin book before Thanksgiving then morphed into Christmas themed books, but at that point I was just reading for fun and during the extended breaks from work. Then just after Christmas I started The Kite Runner and a door opened that I decided I would not be closing anytime soon.

Every summer since probably middle school, I vowed to read 10 books during summer break. Every summer I would line up a few books that looked fun and begin by tackling them, usually always starting with a John Grisham. Then I would just peter out and then stop altogether. I never really enjoyed the act of reading. I loved the stories and the books, but the actual, physical act of reading was not pleasant for me and I saw it as something to be surmounted in order to reach the precipice which was the story to be told.

Then I went to college and after a failed attempt at majoring in Psychology, I majored in English because I fell in love with the analysis of stories, the dissecting that my friends with boring, regular majors didn't seem to understand. This switch however still came at a time when I hated the act of reading. I fudged and squirmed and didn't read about 80% of the text I should have for all of my college classes. In some ways I'm proud of how I skirted and played the system in my #1 public education college. I like to think that it's my version of street smarts. In other ways, I'm ashamed and mad at myself for not reading those books and texts and absorbing every morsel my learned professors dished out. Oh that wicked hinesight!

Needless to say, the summer before I turn thirty has proven to be many things I didn't expect. It's been the summer I didn't travel nearly as much as I had intended to because of a strict and resolute decision to adhere to a budget with a Stalin's fierceness. It's been the summer I discovered the love of a island in the North. Being Southern, this isn't something any lady thinks might happen. It's been the summer I fell in love with my house and all my things because I had to reintroduce myself to them as I shuffled and flipped the house around. It's been the summer that a cousin moved and I got very upset about that and refused to travel to her new destination, holding steadfast to the hope that she will visit me here after 3 years in the same place. It's been the summer that I came to grips with the fact that I may never fit back into the clothes I still cling to from high school and decided to clean out the closets and sell them or give them away. It's also been the summer for the first attempt to publish something, a big hurdle that only places more and more in front of me. It's been the summer where another cousin and wife have put a bun in the oven and since they live in TX it is the last summer I could have seen them as two rather than three in their home. And other babies arrived or kept growing (word to B. and J.) And lastly, it's been the summer that I read 10 books. And I wasn't even trying. It just happened. When I least expected it, a goal I set for myself a million years ago came to fruition. But, isn't that when they say it goes, when you finally let your guard down and stop wishing for the thing, the thing appears? I hope other things appear like that. Wouldn't that be nice?