So I start feeling guilty before it even begins and end up not picking up the book in the first place.
The great thing about being sick, when I'm not so fever-ridden that I'm asleep, is that I'm in bed. It's either watch TV or read a book, because I have to get better. Usually, I choose to read.
When my husband and I met, I had a television and VCR (that's the DVD predecessor), but no "television" or cable. I liked movies, but had shelves full of books. I've always loved to read. I didn't start watching television on a regular basis until the Discovery and History Channels came out. I also love catching my favorite black and whites on the classic channel.
I am not a Nook person. I want to hold the book. Actually turn a page. I love the smell of the paper. How my fingers get a little dark from the ink...
Getting a little off track, but the point is now that I'm down with the flu (or whatever this is), I finally got to finish that book I've been reading for months. It feels good and I'm anxious to attack the stack that's waiting for me.
I hate being sick. I hate this feeling of being disconnected from reality. Like walking into the kitchen in my robe, with the belt dragging, hair mussed, all I want is a drink, and there are dishes everywhere, the sink is full of dirty pans, and what on earth is that dried to the sides of the unrinsed breakfast bowls?
I picture Snow White after being awakened by the Prince and finding the dwarfs didn't bother to clean while she was asleep, all of this after she had kept things tidy before getting ill. Bad enough she was poisoned by an evil queen, but she gets up to this?!?
So I do a quick clean, but then I get a chance to sit and read while the house is empty and the only interruption is my cat purring?