If my neighbors knew what I’ve been reading or watching this weekend, I’m pretty sure they’d call the cops as a preventative measure. Certainly, they’d take me to task for my low-brow taste. This is Park Slope. People wear natural fibers and read Proust. Well, OK, maybe they don’t read Proust, but they have it on the bookshelf.
I have been intensely lazy all weekend and it was everything I dreamed it could be. I’m either resting up, or experiencing a minor depression, depending on how you look at it. I’m hoping the former. I took a shower today, so that’s a good sign.
This happens to me every year around this time. The days get shorter and I just want to curl under a blanket with a good book. (Or a really trashy book. Which is another type of good, and just fine with me.) I just finished Anna Karenina, which was both good and trashy; now I’m reading murder mysteries. I went to the book store today to buy research material for a project I’m trying to convince myself to do, and wound up walking out with $70 worth of books — only one of which was actually related to the project. Then I went home, spread the books out beside me on the couch, and fell into a coma.
It’s maybe not the most thrilling thing to read about, but I have to say, waking up from a Sunday nap to find a stack of unread books next to me on the floor is what I imagine heaven would be like.