Some mornings I wake up and sit in bed for hours. (Yes, I sit there doing nothing, idly staring at my laptop screen). It’s not a problem that I sit there unbathed, unbrushed, uninspired to leave since I normally wake up around 7am anyway. That and maybe also because I have no job to rush to. You pick. (Are you judging me now?)
I normally force myself into the bathroom by 9 or 10. How can you do nothing for so long and not have to pee? Is probably what you’re thinking. I was just thinking that too–I don’t know. I have a lot of self-control. And a highly trained bladder, I guess.
My brain can be stubbornly one-track sometimes. Especially when it comes to looking at pictures of things. Of things I want.
But since I have no job it’s hard to justify spending money that I’ve got saved in the bank. Money in the bank!
I have this untouched money that I’m saving for what? For my future house? For a future wedding? For future children? Um, can you tone it down a notch, Lis? Too far future. But I seriously think about those things as crazy as I may sound.
So, as dangerous as online shopping is, it’s also safe–though tempting. Don’t let me fool you. Online shopping is near e-rresistible with its easy-at-home-access and non-expectant-sales-associate-stares. If only it weren’t for the added expense of shipping. (Guh! Shipping, you’re the worst).
In complete honesty, I get this tingly feeling in my body when I online shop. It’s like I get to pretend that I can buy all these things without having to actually commit to them. It’s brilliant! (Though, I really do wish that I could snag them up and add them to my horde of things. Oh, Ariel, you would think my collection’s complete).
This morning I was (am?) browsing Barnes & Noble (I love books). I keep looking at all the pretty covers, and seeing how there’s a sale–that orange number beside the price with the slash through it always catches my eye (good job marketing, you are pretty sly telling me what percentage I’ll be saving).
I’m sitting in bed reading the reviews and the synopses, lusting over imaginary words and plots. I keep thinking about how that book will feel in my hands as I read it. The soft, flexible cover with a matte finish. Or will it be gloss?? Will it have hefty, coarse pages, or the smooth photocopy kind? (I got a shiver just thinking about it).
I imagine how it’s going to inspire me or change my life, how I’m going to fall instantly, head-over-heels in love with it, and how I’m going to curl up with that book and finger through its contents until I’ve soaked up every. Last. Black-printed. Word.
I’ll add it to my bookshelf, which is already bending under the weight of too much love and heartbreak and life and death and whimsy and hope. I’ll nestle it between the covers of its other published brothers where it will be snug and warm and loved and read. Where it will find itself a home and it can stand upright–proud of its own opinions and perspective on life and people.
My heart dies a little from knowing what I’ll be missing even though it was never mine to begin with. And then I’ll remove each item from my e-maginary basket–clear it from the cart, e-rase it from the tiny graphic shopping bag. That little bit of e-lation I got from pretending quickly vanishes to this smothering sorrow that comes from reality (realit-E–ha ha ha).
But, then again . . . I do have this gift card I should get rid of . . . and, seriously, what’s $10 for a book anyway?