I’m crazy for books. Always have been. They carried me through a childhood absent of Zoloft, a marriage short on success, and more bad haircuts than I care to recall. I coped with none of these well, but here I am, still breathing. Without books to pull me through, I probably would have ended up pumping gas, sans an ability to pump gas, scraping pennies together for a bi-annual latte.
At one point, I accumulated more books than I could accommodate, forcing me to sell “Anna Karenina” back to my local used bookstore. How this pained me! Despite my torturous, if periodic, boredom, I’d battled through Anna’s interminable pages just to know, in the depths of my puny soul, that I’d done it. Because, damnit, I had. (For the record, I have no interest in the lives of Russian farmers. Nor will I ever.)
“Anna Karenina” was thick and heavy; it had presided prominently at the center of my centerpiece bookcase. It had announced, in its own quiet way, that I’d persevered through its pages to unimpeachable triumph. I wanted that book there. I needed it there. But in time, I had to choose between displaying it out of pride or letting it go, to let new life in.
I chose to let new life in.
Witness to my turmoil, my friend Arthur, an engineer, gave me a bookcase he no longer needed. On a Saturday afternoon, he hoisted it into my apartment and set it against the wall beside my bed. I was thrilled. More room for books!
I wish my tale ended there. Alas, it does not. Along with the bookcase, Arthur brought a digital camera (and tripod, of course. That’s just him) to take pictures of me for my Match.com. profile. He took a few of me in the kitchen. Too blue. A few in the living room. Better, but a bit too dark. Finally we ventured into the bedroom. I propped myself up against a few pillows and smiled widely into the lens. And in these shots, all was pleasing to the eye. It seemed we’d finally found success.
Not until viewing the photos later did I notice it.
Despite my numerous and enthusiastic claims to be an avid reader in my Match profile, I was positioned before a totally bare bookcase.
A totally bare bookcase.
Of course, I knew there was a simple fix to this. Either I, or the bookcase, would be cropped out.
It didn’t matter, really. Either way, the lighting would be superb.
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