When I wake up I want to see something I love...

I have been mocked for many things many times: my inability to keep a white shirt clean, the crumbs that usually surround my plate (and sometimes my chair) at the end of a meal, my cookie...fascination, various laughs that manage to escape despite my greatest efforts to keep them in, varying levels of clumsiness and grumpiness, and the list goes on and on. Well, according to some (one witness and two who I floated the story by), we just added a new one to the list.

It all started with the big move, which, mercifully, is reaching its end. I still have one corner of boxes to be addressed and a huge Goodwill pile (ginormous suitcase that almost weighs the weight limit, anyone?) to dispose of. This was a more taxing move than the others have been. I think because it's the first time I've moved without really needing to. I mean, granted, I haven't had a bedroom door for the last 2 years but other than that things were fine.

I deemed Sunday an "ox in the mire" day and started unpacking my books. There was no way I was feeling the spirit with all that clutter, so I decided to pull the "house of order" card and got to work. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed and slightly lonely though, so B came over to keep me company while I tried to figure out how I wanted to arrange my books.

Now, if you'll refer to the post immediately preceding this one, you'll remember that I was feeling badly about my possessions. But as I unpacked I realized that had I not owned so many books, it literally would have cut my move almost in half. I'm not exaggerating. The mountain of boxes blocking my way on all sides was almost all books. I was also surrounded by five bookshelves: one very large, dark wood, 5 shelf; one tall and blonde and one short and white, both from IKEA; one nasty particle board that I inherited three houses ago; and one very cool fold-up three shelf that, up until 3 days ago, was occupied by sweaters and jeans in my closet. That's a lot of literary paraphenelia. I was feeling a little bit better.

Traditionally, the nicest bookcase (my large one) has held Tolkien, Lewis, Rowling, Austen, Gaskell, Scott and Eco, along with all my medieval manuscript and politics books. So I put them across the top three shelves. No brainer. Then I started to fill in with my other favorite books (my nonfiction tastes, having taken off last year, filled almost an entire shelf!), relegating my box labeled "American Lit" to the corner where the particle board bookcase had been banished. After I filled the big bookcase, I moved onto the particle board, where my reference books, Horatio Hornblower (the cad), Spanish materials and family history documents were destined to land. I filled that bookcase when suddenly I realized I hadn't done anything with American Lit.

Now let me just pause here to say this: it's not that I don't like American Literature. I have liked lots of books written by Americans. Anne Fadiman, an American, is one of my favorite authors. I just read The Grapes of Wrath and was terribly moved (being a Californian I think made me cry through it all the more). Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls holds a dear place in my heart. But when I looked at the box of books and thought about them in the blonde IKEA bookcase which I had placed nearest my bed, I felt sick. I didn't want to wake up to American Literature every day. I wanted to wake up to the large brown bookcase full of Tolkien, Lewis, etc. But the big bookcase doesn't fit in that part of the room. I had two choices: I would have to either wake up to AmLit or relegate the Brits to a second-rate bookcase. I stood in between the bookcases for probably five minutes. B finally noticed I had stopped moving and asked what the matter was. Lost in my thoughts, I explained my dilemma to her, not even stopping to think how ridiculous it might sound. Her laughter brought me back to someone's version of reality (certainly not my own - mine dealt with the dilemma of book placement!). I maybe should have been embarrassed (and maybe should be embarrassed for this very lengthy confession as well) but I wasn't. It is a big deal to me! When I wake up, I want to see something I love. So I decided: the Brits would have to move. Turns out they fit perfectly in the blonde bookcase. AND, non-fiction got to stay in the nice bookcase and was promoted to the top shelf. Suddenly it was like my world fell back into place. There was balance in the room: my favorite books were in an okay bookcase and my second-favorite books were in a great bookcase, and both got top-shelf status. I felt pretty good about my decision. B decided to mock me a little further, though, by pointing out that I had been referring to my books by name as I, yes, talked to them, and that at one point I apologized to Gaskell when I thought she was going to have to sit next to Dickens (He is not a favorite. However, I soon felt at peace when I realize that Gaskell is actually the perfect combination of Austen and Dickens, which happened to be the two authors I had placed her between). Anyway, all that to say, the books are unpacked and my room feels more like home. You can call me a nerd, it's okay. I'm actually pretty comfortable with that. You can call it a commentary on certain specific aspects of my life. I'm less comfortable with that.

Oh, and the fourth and fifth bookcases? I finally have a place for all my church books, right next to my reading chair, and one for my sheet music, right next to my piano. That makes me happy.