on reading perhaps more than average

Once in a blue moon, someone penetrates my self-isolation bubble–not from COVID-19; I’ve loved the hermit lifestyle since way before it was legally mandated—to observe that I read a lot. Sometimes these people offer a few words of admiration before launching into a litany of all the reasons why they could never spend so much time reading and sometimes they scoff at my devotion to a hobby they deem worthless. (While never considering that I might feel the same about their obsession with getting manicures, binge-watching reality television or trying to get noticed by celebrities on Facebook.)

So, for future reference, I hereby list the reasons why I can read as much as I do:

  1. My children are mostly grown. Not having to wait hand and food on mouthy little tyrants frees up approximately 65 hours a day.
  2. The library. I buy as many books as I can, but rely heavily on borrowing. Having worked in a few libraries for half a dozen years, I don’t buy into the librarian-hero-worship that’s popular at the moment, but they are invaluable for anyone who needs to read and is not a millionaire.
  3. I prioritise. Read or wash the kitchen floor? Read, duh. Read or work on the taxes? Read, double duh. Read or watch Doc Martin? Watch Doc Martin. Then read.
  4. Know when to quit. This is a work in progress because, after all these years, I still have a hard time shaking this mysterious belief that I should finish everything I start. Who cares? There are no prizes for persisting with something that sucks.
  5. Audiobooks. Yes, they count as reading and disregard anyone who says they don’t. (Same goes for e-books versus paper. Format snobs are such a bore.) Audiobooks can be a bit unreliable because some narrators are terrible, but when you get a good one, it’s wonderful. I spend at least a couple hours every day doing dishes, cooking, wiping counters, folding laundry, watching the dogs poop in the yard, riding the exercise bike, picking up after slobby family members, brushing and flossing, et cetera, and now all that time is also reading time. Bingo!
  6. I accept my lack of interest in impressing others. I just can’t bring myself to read things that might be really smart, but boring. Or worthy and important, but super-depressing. Or highly praised and touted, but for no discernible reason. Until the day I get paid to read, I’ll choose what I like.

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