The other day, I was in one of my classic moods. I had just been on the phone with a woman who is more than willing to give me a leg up in the editing world, except I have to move to Boston or Newark or San Francisco to make it happen. Right now, a move like that is not feasible for me. There are many other factors contributing to my hesitations about moving, but I won't get into them. Suffice it to say, I was not exactly cheery and bubbly with all the anxieties bouncing around in my head.
So I decided to go shopping. Retail therapy. Classic. Except it didn't have the desired affect. There were tons of people at the mall (of course), there was nothing in my size, I couldn't commit to any potential purchase; I just wanted to get out before I could give into my claustrophobia and scream in the middle of a crowded over-priced store. Eventually, I found sanctuary in Barns & Noble. I thought, "I don't have to fit into a book. Books don't come in sizes. Books don't make me look fat. There are few things more forgiving in this world than books (unless they're self-help or diet or exercise books I suppose)."
I ended up buying Julia & Julia by Julie Powell and City of Thieves by David Benioff (I was in the mood for something a little bleak). Buying books always seems to restore me to a more neutral mood. I like the way they feel, the weight of them, the smell of them. There is something magical about a newly purchased, unopened book. I ferreted my books home like secret treasure.