I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts lately. I mean, it happens.
When this out of sortsing happens, I typically become a rather large infant. Three years ago I hated my job and so I worked “Mommy” time into every morning. About fifteen minutes before getting in my car to drive to said horrible job, I’d climb into my mom’s bed and cry. The clean, crisp smell of her sheets and the warmth of her mommy arms took me back to my childhood and it soothed me. For some people it’s apple pie. For me, it’s sheets and arms.
Anyway. Now I live on my own and short of calling my mom crying, (Yes. I do this often. Like when my shower broke and she wondered, why the hell are you calling me right now? Why, mom? Seriously? Because you are my MOM and I am a BABY!) I pretty much have to deal with my demons alone. Find new and exciting ways to behave like a child in order to bring myself back to a state of semi-normalcy.
I have no idea how to properly transition into the subject of my post, so I’ll just throw it out there. I’ve taken to reading in the dark. I haven’t done that since I read James and the Giant Peach eons ago. All of a sudden sometime two weekends ago, I felt it was absolutely necessary to put down From Eternity to Here and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (both incredible books, but too heavy for one who’s mind is trying to be 8 again) and pick up Harry Potter & the Goblet of Fire (my favorite of the entire series). As if cuddling in bed with Master HP and Madame J.K. Rowling wasn’t enough, I needed it to be dark. And I needed a flashlight.
Well a booklight. It’s more grown up than a flashlight, but has the same effect. (affect? I’ll never know.)