Must…Read…

~ By Becke (Martin) Davis

Note: This post originally appeared here. 

I’m a bookaholic – no secret there. You can find my recent reading list on Shelfari and more favorites at Barnes & Noble. Recently my friend Kelsey Browning blogged at Wordplay about the benefits of reading deprivation as a sort of cleansing process. The thought of going even a day without reading gave me chills, and not in a good way.

As a kid, I often got in trouble at school for having an open book in my lap, hidden by my desk. At home, I drove my mom nuts by sneaking a flashlight into bed and reading under the covers. If there wasn’t a book handy, I’d read cereal boxes.

Since I was the oldest child, our house wasn’t full of kids’ books when I was little. That happened gradually, as my brother and I were allowed to get books from Scholastic and Weekly Reader Book Clubs. My allowance went to Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden books. Later, I used babysitting money to subscribe to Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. My first “real” paychecks in high school supported my book club habit: Literary Guild, Mystery Book Club, Doubleday Book Club, the History Book Club and the Paperback Book Club. Even later, I subscribed to Harlequin, Silhouette Special Edition and Candlelight Ecstasy Romance book clubs – and more.

I also went to libraries a lot, and never left a used book sale without at least a bag of books. My husband shares my love of books, even if he’s not quite the reading addict I am, so our date nights frequently take us to bookstores – and cafe’s IN bookstores. Not a week goes by that I don’t buy at least a few books. Hell, on average, I might even buy a book a day. (My husband is nodding vigorously.) And I’m lucky enough to get books from publishers and authors, too. I have a huge to-be-read pile (we’re talking hundreds of books) in paper, and a whole lot waiting to be read on my Nook, too.

But it never struck me how much I need to read until yesterday. My husband and I were out running errands when our car battery died. Luckily we belong to triple-A, so all it took was a phone call to arrange for help. We were told a serviceman would be with us in twenty minutes or so.

Since we’d only planned on being out a short time, I had left the house without Nook or book. Well. Twenty minutes. Easy peasey, right?

Two minutes later I started to get antsy. My husband, playing with his iPod, was cool and calm. I fidgeted, watching another minute tick away on the clock. Fidget, fidget. My husband didn’t say anything, but I think I saw his eyebrows raise. Apparently, I have the attention span of a five-year-old.

I eyed my purse. When was the last time I cleaned it out? Went through the surprisingly clean make-up bag. (Yes, I travel with a make-up bag at all times, because you never know when you’ll need mascara. And a roller-ball perfume or three.) Dug a few old receipts out of the bottom and stuck them in a side-pocket for disposal later. Found a relatively new pack of gum – opening that took another ten seconds or so.

The zip pockets – rats – must have been cleaned out the last time I switched purses. Nothing to occupy me there. Then I pulled out my wallet and struck gold. Amazingly, there were five insurance cards in there, all seemingly identical.

“I don’t suppose I really need all of these, do I?”

My husband took them from me, squinting at the small print. “Some of these are bound to be old.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, as he put on his reading glasses. “No biggie.”

“No, now I’m curious,” he said. “You’ve hooked me on the mystery.”

A few seconds later he muttered, “Aha!” and pointed to the printing dates in tiny numbers on the back.

Huh. A couple of those cards went back 2009 – who knew?

After that I dug out three expired Garden Writers Association membership cards, a Lancome discount coupon that expired two years ago, and business cards for every hairdresser I’ve ever visited. I stuck a bunch of those in the discard pile (the side pocket of the purse). Another five minutes had passed.

I pulled out the credit cards. I was squinting at the small print on the back, when my husband laughed.

“What?” says I.

“Look at you – you’re reading credit cards!” He shook his head. “I knew you were addicted to reading, but I never knew you were thisaddicted.”

Assuming an air of nonchalance, I put the credit cards away, dropping my wallet back into the dark depths of my purse.

That’s when the triple-A guy pulled up.

Now, honestly, I don’t see a problem here. I made constructive use of my time and now have a much more organized purse.

But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not leaving this house in future unless either the Nook or a book is in the bottom of my purse. And I never go anywhere without my purse.

I think Kelsey’s idea of the no-reading cleanse probably has merit. I’m pretty sure I’ll never find out.