56 centimetres of pure stress

Reading is supposed to be pleasurable, soothing and relaxing. But my ‘to read’ pile is 56 centimetres of pure stress. (I measured it.) Whenever I see it, I sweat, tremble and break out in hives. I try not to look at it.

Sometimes, I go for weeks without picking up a book.

‘Just make time,’ my friend helpfully offered the other day.

I wanted to hit her.

Sure, I’ll just tell the boss I’ll be in a bit late to work or boycott cooking. Maybe I can skip the gym and become fat and frazzled or I’ll pass on homework help, housework, grocery shopping and errands. I could stop walking the dog and ditch the blog. I know! I just won’t sleep.

Besides, if, by some miracle, I do create a sliver of time to read, which volume do I choose?

There are half a dozen publications where hope triumphed over experience and I crammed in a quick forty pages (think Wimpy downing burgers) – but all of these optimistic forays were months ago. Not only has the pull of a brand new, unknown read been diluted to the strength of angel’s pee, but I have forgotten the content. Did I like any of these offerings enough to re-read the beginnings? I can’t remember.

There are two 'read again' projects. Should I read something I know is good or something that might be better?

There are also seven borrowed tomes, all probably making their owners antsy – will these paperbacks ever come home, wagging their bookmarks behind them?

And what is it with the library? You have four items on order. You are 164th in line for one, fifth in line for another, they’ll get back to you on the third one and you don’t even remember placing the hold on the last one. You can practically guarantee they will all turn up in the same week and add to the multitudinous centimetres of worry and aggravation.

A couple of highly recommended volumes would be perfect for an international plane flight or a lonely business trip hotel room. However, they look somewhat intimidating to a time-poor, constantly interrupted and usually brain-fried person.

At the other end of the spectrum, you’d think I could immediately eighty-six the disposable romantic lightweights from the equation. However, sometimes the bibliographic equivalent of a box of soft-centres is exactly what’s needed – if I forget what happened in the first sixty pages, it doesn’t really matter – I can ditch it and start another one or keep reading and still get it. But like their sweet equivalents, they’re nutritionally unsound and don’t really satisfy.

There are other ways of selecting, I guess – by size, weight, colour or position (just start at the top…or bottom). I could close my eyes and grab whatever my finger points to. Or I could ‘eeny meeny miney moe’.

But this hypothetical is redundant.

Short of a miracle, the blog, the dog and the housework will continue to dominate and I will continue to avert my gaze from the Scary Pile to avoid rattles and rashes.

All miracles will be gratefully accepted.