I’ve been told on many occasions, I’m a very passionate person. Everything I like, I go in full bore. The proof is there in my stack of books all over my house (and the amount of them I have downloaded on my iPad), the stacks of CDs I have or the amount of songs on my phone, iPod and computer (we’re talking months worth, not days, but months). Cars, trucks and motorcycles, the affinity I have for them is the same. Only difference there is, I can’t afford to own all of the ones I want/desire. Food and the gym? Well we all know how much I love food and the gym…
And I’m not quiet about my passions either. I’m a vocal person by nature, so it’s only right that I’m a vocal passion-er (I know, it’s not a word, but for arguments sake…)
I worked from home yesterday, and because I was stressed, frustrated and it was driving rain all day… I sort of indulged. I had a full day cheat fest where my clean eating went out the proverbial window. As I sat in my home office, working away on deadline for the paper, I munched on chocolates, candies, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and all the likes. The noises that came out of my mouth as I savored the flavor explosions were enough to make probably even a porn star blush.
I know my dog certainly ran and ducked for cover a few times.
I talk to my television shows as though they can hear me. Don’t ask how loudly I cursed Kurt Sutter six-ways to Sunday when he killed Opie on Sons of Anarchy. Or how often I shout at Maguire or Corky on Copper. I get mad when characters do something that is just pure common sense NOT to do, like when Rachel Bilson’s Zoe Hart still pined after George when Wade was clearly the better choice. I get sad for my characters when they can’t have something they deserve (RE: Oliver Queen and love, or the Winchester brothers and… well love and a family).
I am just a vocal person, with no shame in it. At all.
It was the same way over the weekend when I was browsing around a local antique shop, looking for kitchen knick-knacks for my 1880’s Center Cape and a heat grate for a spare room upstairs.
I’ve got a thing for old books. Not just for looks or touch, but for legit reading. I’ve got stacks of old Tennyson, Browning and the likes that I’ve read through more times than I can count on my available digits.
But, what caught my eye on Saturday wasn’t really an old book. The book was published in 1994, but is probably one of the hardest damn books to find (not all torn and tattered) ever. I’ve read it nearly 50 times most likely. The public library here, before they sold their copy at a book sale (which I’m still bitter about…), had proof that library patron #2218 checked it out so many times that they needed to put additional check-out stickers in the back card holder for it.
… And there it sat. On top of a stack of books 100+ years old. Beckoning me.
I moaned. I squealed. I even hopped like a kid with a Skip-It, clapped my hands and screamed “Oh my fucking God!”
Needless to say, the old—er, mature ladies, around me gave me side eye, shook their heads and continued on their way. Me, oblivious to their disgust, snatched the book up, clutched it to my chest and made a few cooing noises like a mother would a newborn child.
$8 for my actual most favorite book of all time. $8 as in EIGHT DOLLARS!
That induced some more… peculiar noises.
The lady at the register, who thankfully knows me as a regular, seemed blind and deaf to my delight — to my luck.
Now, the one place I’ve learned to internalize my joy, or um, “passion” is in yoga classes. Apparently moaning out “Holy mother of God does that feel good” as you’re stretching and twisting is not such a good idea. Oops.