Pacing back and forth across the floor, I’m biting my nails and glancing around nervously. I’ve worn out a straight line on the family rug, and checked my Blackberry fourteen times in the last five minutes. I hear phantom phones ringing, and think it’s my cell phone. I have become an obsessive, desperate stalker… of… a book I have on hold at the library.
There’s a book I really want to read; maybe you’ve read it? Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea by comedian Chelsea Handler. If you have it, please overnight me your copy. I’ll return it, like I do my library books. I promise.
Merry Christmas to Handler; she was published in December…2009, yet I still haven’t reserved my copy. I love vodka, and I love comedians. Why has it taken me so long to get my hands on this book?
It’s a book I pick up every time I pass it on the shelves in Target or Barnes and Noble. I turn it over in my hands, sneak read a line or two (I don’t want to ruin the intense surprise). It’s one that I do not want to download onto my Nook, because I actually want to turn the pages and laugh hysterically with the paper between my fingers. Plus, I don’t know how this is possible, but the price is $12.99 on the Nook, and it was $11 something in Target. Oh, and it’s free at the library, which brings me back to my opening scene of this story.
I called the library, and was told the book was successfully listed under my name. I pressed the librarian on the phone to give me more details, such as when it’s scheduled to be returned, and the current residence where my hostage book spends its nights. I hung up after being told it was due back on the 17th, but that I would receive notification if it was turned in early. Then, panic set in. The 17th? That was three weeks away. I could buy my own copy, and have it finished in roughly two days… let alone wait seventeen days just to hold a germy (free) copy.
It’s going to be ok. I am satisfied with my decision to not purchase the book. I will read the library copy, enjoy the library copy, and return the library copy. Then I will move on to another book that I so desperately want, that I pace the living room floor and stalk some innocent book lover. You might be next.