There isn’t much that can make me happier than a box from Amazon, especially when it’s filled with books.
The last two weeks have been hard. My thyroid levels have been low, so I’m exhausted. I’m exhausted, so I’m not exercising. I’m not exercising, so my anxiety levels are high. Put all that in a bowl, stir in lots of bad news, a pinch of PMS and a history of low-grade depression. Bake for an undetermined amount of time at 45 degrees and you pretty much have my spring.
As we wait to hear back from T’s graduate school of choice, I’m stressed out about our lack of direction. As we try to get answers, I’m saddened by our fertility troubles (okay, panicked). And P-Phil is a dirty little liar with his “early spring” BS because it’s been freezing cold here and yesterday it snowed.
Exercise is one way I cope with life’s curveballs. I’ve been too tired, so that’s not been helpful. Ice cream, as you’ll know if you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, is another coping mechanism for me. Fortunately, as I type this post, my Cuisinart ice cream maker is spinning me a pumpkin coconut milk concoction that my husband and I will shortly be eating as we sit our fat asses in front of the T.V. (I said concoction. Hee hee hee.)
But there are other ways I deal as well. One I’ve not previously mentioned is books. When I get in a funk, I read books. Actually, I always read books, every chance I get. But when I get in a funk, I read comfort books, which usually means young adult literature. You know – the books I read as a kid; sitting on the porch with a popsicle, when the world was a happier place. And the deeper the funk, the lower my chosen reading level. I’m not kidding .When I’m reading Ramona Quimby, Age 8, things in my life are pretty fubar-ed.
Which is why one of the best parts of my week was getting an Amazon box in the mail. I savored every second as I slit the tape, pried open the flaps and drew out my precious bundle.
This is the fifth book in a series I’ve been reading:
The protagonist is an angst-ridden teen named Jessica Darling and nicknamed “Notso” by her father. The series follows her through high school and college as she tells her story via her raw and perceptive journals as well as by her letters to her best friend, Hope, who has (symbolically) moved away.
I’ve read that the fifth and final book doesn’t live up to the first four, but I already own the rest of the set so I can’t very well stop short. That would be like leaving out The Deathly Hallows.
If you don’t follow the Nutrition Diva’s podcasts, you should. She is the most practical, down to Earth nutritionist I’ve ever come across and believe me when I say food is more than an obsession for me: it’s a way of life.
Haha! Get it? I crack myself up.
But seriously, she’s brilliant.
She also wrote this book:
Since I want to be the Nutrition Diva in my next life and since inflammation and autoimmune diseases are so closely related, I wanted to check this book out as well.
I read Eat, Pray, Love and became enamored with Liz Gilbert’s writing (the movie didn’t live up). This is her next book. I’m reading it.
And finally. The pièce de résistance. The true measure of my week. The book I’m quite possibly the most excited about.
The one. The only. The prequel:
That’s right. Ann M. Martin wrote a prequel to The Baby-Sitters Club series. I’m not even kidding. It came out in paperback on April 1st.
Yes, I’m 35 years old. Yes, I have a head half-full of gray hair. Yes, I have a full-time job and too many responsibilities and the stress-related ailments of the many adults who try to keep this ridiculous pace of the Western world.
But as a kid I spent my summers reading these books. My friend K and I once tried to start our own BSC (which failed miserably, I might add – but we had a lot of fun planning it). Hell, at one point I even kept a notebook where I started to rewrite the first Super Series book with myself added as the sixth sitter.
So, yeah. I’m going to read the book. And I’m going to love every flippin’ forget-I’m-an-adult minute of it.
And while we’re doing True Confessions, I might as well throw this in there:
Shut up. You know you want to borrow them.
How about you? What do you do to defunkify yourself?