Regaining a sense of self

There are things about me that I feel define me as a person. If you ask anyone who knows me, they would agree. If you looked around my house and in my closet, you'd also realize that there are things about me that define me. One of these things is the constant presence of books. I always have stacks of them on every open surface, waiting for me to continue reading them. For a while, I felt as though I had lost that side of me. I hadn't been reading very much, and I certainly hadn't been writing. I didn't think there was coincidence involved there. Lately, my favourite (yes, I am allowed to use UK spelling) hobby has returned, with a vengeance. Once again, my constant companion is a book. I take one with me each morning, in case my day involves any sort of unfilled time in which a book could be read, I take a book with me when I blow dry my hair, read during any solitary meals, keep it at my bedside in case I have a free half hour in the morning... you get the picture.

This Sunday, I woke up on my own schedule. I grabbed my latest obsession from the nightstand and read in bed. My ABSOLUTE favorite thing to do. I was on cloud nine. Nothing could spoil the perfection of that day. Not even when I switched to clip-in pedals on my bike and fell over in an empty parking lot within 30 seconds of trying them. 30 seconds. Not even when, in the midst of the family dinner I prepared at my house complete with home made onion rings, I realized I didn't have any ketchup, and my brother and dad threatened to leave. Oh no, pure bliss.

I feel as though I have reunited with an old friend. That beautiful, sunshiny feeling of relating to someone who you love so much. That person, who I had missed dearly, was me. Me - books = not me. I know that I just said I loved myself, and I'm not going to try and explain that one away. We should all love ourselves. I love the bookishness about me, because it's just who I am. And that is a beautiful thing.