It is a fuzzy gray day outside. Rain knocks on the windows and the skies look like a sad gothic painting. My toes are cold, the dog took my place on the couch, and the lightbulb just went out in the living room. I'm also halfway through an impromptu wardrobe change: from jeans and a tee shirt and into my woolly sweater (to match the weather) and cashmere socks (to match my mood). It's not even noon and I want to get in bed and read until sunrise.
But it's the first waking hours of a new year and I think I'm supposed to grind, and hustle, and also maybe girlboss?
My foot is falling asleep and so am I.
When I was little, we would go to the library on days like these and get stacks and stacks of books. On the drive home, the books would slide along the back seat of our ancient Plymouth Horizon, and my sister and I would make fences of our arms to keep the pile from sliding under the black hole known as Under The Seats.
Once home, my mom would give us two cookies each, a cup of hot chocolate or lemonade depending on the season, announce, "Go read," and temporarily banish us from all television.
We'd find our own quiet spots around the house and while I preferred snuggling under the covers in my bed, in true big sister fashion, I have no idea where my little sister went. I read everything I could get my hands on, and my mom had no restrictions: if I could understand the words, I could read any book. I remember holding my breath during Scout's walk home in To Kill a Mockingbird and asking my mother what "swearing a blue streak" meant after reading Mommie Dearest. I re-read Shark Lady so often the librarian gave me an extra copy for Christmas. Reading a book is like pulling a warm blanket around your shoulders on a rainy day.
Today I'll grab a book and a hide in a little corner of my house. I'll grab a cookie (or two), a mug of hot coffee, and whatever is on the top of my book pile.
Today is for blankets, tomorrow is for conquering the world.
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