In relation to a bookseller, weird, I know.
Don’t get me wrong, I love writing. As cheesy and small-towny as it is (sorry, Shel, sorry, Jeff, sorry, Anne), I love The Gabber and my occasional other clients. BUT sitting in front of a computer every day breeds something bizarre in people, makes them weird. It’s like fish… they weren’t meant to be kept in a tank. It does something to them.
So a part-time job is a good thing (plus, it’s cruising money) for those reasons. But beyond that, there’s something nice about coming home bone-tired. Much as I love writing, it exhausts my mind but does nothing for any other muscles. Ok, I have very well-toned fingers, but that aside, my other muscles may very well atrophy around my mac if I don’t watch it. I’ll just be a big blob, except for eyestrained eyes and well-defined fingers.
But working anywhere else- and knowing I have to drag my lazy butt to a certain place at a certain time- keeps me from dissolving into aforementioned blob. Plus, I truly believe that we (humans) are basically animals, and no animal was meant to stay in a cage, even if the confinement is self-imposed. I mean, hell, even Scrubfy doesn’t have to stay in her cage; her door stays open and she can come and go at will. Animals need to move, need some sort of muscular activity. Lu, back me up here, you’re another perfect example of the physical benefits of venturing outside the home (ah, if only I could wear scrubs while I sold books).
So since it’s starting to get butt-ass cold and I won’t occupy myself at the beach as much as I’d like (yes, I’m a wimp, and yes, that’s why I will never live one degree north of where I do now), I figure I can satisfy those animal instincts by getting some sort of part-time endeavor. Stretching muscles, ya know.
Yes, a bookstore satisfies a primal instinct. It keeps me from being weird.
Ok, it keeps me from being weirdER.
And may I just say how SAD it is that I think working at a BOOKSTORE constitutes physical activity? Compare it to what I’m doing right now as I type, guys… the WHOLE of my physical existence constitutes typing and uncrossing and recrossing my legs every twenty minutes or so, lest I get a cramp.
You know, when I think about it, it’s actually quite a miracle I don’t weigh 200 pounds (or more). I eat almost nonstop and don’t move and have the metabolism of a decaying corpse (after the first year). Is it possible I’m on crack and don’t know it? Can you get a contact high from crack (that’s my “I love my neighborhood” tribute)?
The store opens Tuesday; more then from your friendly book-pusher.