I’m not exaggerating when I tell you my extra room has walls of books, just like the photo above. It’s all for a good cause. I decided to release my inner masochist and totally renovate my home—repainting walls and new flooring in 5 rooms all at once—just before my total knee replacement. I imagined recuperating in my recliner while I admired my “new” home. I forgot about emptying each room at a time during this major overhaul, and exhausting myself days before I “go under the knife.”


As I pulled each book from the shelf, its title called to me. “I’ve got to read this one! Didn’t know I had it.” And that one, and that one, and that one.

I imagine sitting in my recliner, leg elevated, a little narcotic on board for the pain, delving into my newly discovered friends. Reality, however, will surely rear its ugly head. I’ll take as little opiates as possible.  I’ll do those consarned PT exercises even if they kill me. And hopefully, I’ll get through at least one thick tome.


I emailed a friend: “If I buy another book (after the one I just ordered arrives), may the earth open up and swallow me.” (Her response was more sympathetic than wise because she’s as bad as I in the book department.) I must remind myself  that there is such a thing as a library just down the road from me.

Yet, there is something comforting about owning books. They’re like gourmet treats, hidden in my home, waiting to be savored. Friends, with secrets to share, or yarns to spin, calling my name every time I walk into the room where they live.

But I shall remain firm and remind myself that, even if I lived to be 100, I wouldn’t get through every book in the house. Instead of buying more, I shall curb my need to own more books, and live at my local library instead.

Oh, and not schedule surgery and home renovation at the same time.