Over my lifetime (so far), I’ve had a few romantic relationships. Not many, less than a handful. Needless to say, they all ended, some not so well. So I wanted to write a tribute to my favourite partner. My years-long consistent and reliable better half. Books! Any book. Many books. Multiple books at one time. Sometimes, just one book for weeks on end.
I can converse with books, have deep and meaningful discussions, disagree with them all I want. Sure, they give me the silent treatment, but only in a good way.
I can have a drink with my books. Several if I want to. They never feed me any corny pick up lines or try to make me do tequila shots. A book has never grabbed my ass.
I can spend the whole day in bed with books, fall asleep with one in my arms – and never have to shave my legs.
When the book is good, I can’t get enough, I hang on its every word. If it’s not good, I can quit it – return it to the bookshelf, give it away. I know it won’t hold it against me. Even when a book is bad I can’t bring myself to harm it, can’t toss it in the garbage or cut it into A Million Little Pieces. Yes, even when it’s that bad.
I can have more than one book at a time and not feel guilty. Or I can ignore my books for days on end when other things are more important. They never whine at me or ask where I’ve been, never give me the cold shoulder. My books are always happy to see me and always forgive my absence.
I can fall in and out of love with books, sometimes more than once with the same one. No one ever gets hurt in the process. Lawyers are never required.
I love a book that makes me uncomfortable, makes me squirm. Do I want a human relationship like that? Uh, no thanks.
The final two reasons books are better than lovers?
Books always smell amazing.
Books don’t fart.