Do you know how long it’s been where I’ve taken a night to
just curl up in bed and read? It’s been too long. It’s been entirely and
ridiculously too long. I have not had
the attention span or the patience or the mental fortitude to do anything more
than lie under my duvet and enjoy watching Gossip
Girl more than anyone really should really be enjoying watching Gossip Girl. Also, Iron Chef has also become my one true
love, and Alton Brown my boyfriend on the side.
The point is, I’ve been watching way too much television. I
never watch television. It is very irritating to realize that all I want to do
is watch television like some kind of crazy television watching person who
watches a lot of television.
I’ve also become some kind of crazy bus-riding person who
stares into space rather than pulling the book I carry everywhere—to no avail, fucking Middlemarch—out of my
bag. And at lunch, I’ve been going to
the gym like a crazy gym-going person, rather than curling up on the couch in
the break room and reading and eating Cheez Whiz right out of the aerosol can
like any normal person.
But Friday night, I canceled all of my plans to go out and be social, and I poured myself a glass of wine and I
pulled the duvet up to my chin and read The
Know-It-All until 2:00 in the morning and my eyes were rolling back in my
head, and it was the best night I’ve had in a long goddamn time. I missed
reading. I have to remember how I missed it, before I start missing it again
like a big dope.
And now, do you know how close I am to being done with Middlemarch? I am so close. I am thisclose. That’s really close. It’s
Do you know how little I want this book to end? So very
little. I am loving it. One of the most frustrating things about reading this
book is how much I love it, but how easy it was to avoid going back to it. I would pick it up, and get immediately
absorbed, have to put it away, and then it would take actual effort to force
myself to pick it back up.
There is no explanation for this. I knew it was a great
book, and I knew that I was enjoying it (it is hard to not be aware that you
are enjoying something, I imagine, unless your lack of self-awareness borders
on legal blindness) but there was
something formidably off-putting about it when the cover was closed.
The first time I ever started reading it was for a class,
and for that class—a graduate school course—I think I decided I wanted the
important, hefty, weighty edition that would make me look very intellectual.
Fucker was the size of a brick. A really fat brick. An
oversized brick with a weightlifting habit. It was a big goddamn book, and man
did I hate lugging that thing around.
In class, the instructor only had us read halfway. I’m still not sure why. But as soon as I got up to the halfway mark,
the book went bam! on the floor, and even though I wanted very muchly to pick
the thing back up, to finish the book that I had kind of been loving, I
couldn’t do it. It was too big, I said.
"Get a smaller copy!" people said. And eventually, I did. And
I had no excuse to not pick it up anymore, to not carry it with me and read it
on the bus and finish the stupid thing and I still didn’t because I am weird
However, despite my astonishing levels of weird dumbness, I
am almost finished! I am going to get into the bathtub tonight, and I am going
to add bubbles that smell like coriander and lemon, and I am going to stay in
that tub while the water turns cold and terrible, terrible things happen to
good people because that is the way life is and that is what George Eliot
Oh, I hope it has a happy ending. Don’t tell me.