There are particular instances throughout my life that I have to perform a self-induced intervention. I have an addictive personality. There, I said it. Sometimes these addictions are physical by nature. Sometimes they are mental. It wasn't that long ago that Rock turned me on to Jay's Boot Camp. As much as it pained me during the one hour torture session, that rush of serotonin was irreplaceable. And there was kickboxing - it was a stress reliever unlike any other. I went from going twice a week, to three times, and so on and so forth. Then I got distracted by some other form of outlet and moved on - not that I'm a self-proclaimed gym-aholic or anything. My habit of phases isn't limited to physical effort. I went through a period of "margarita overload." Or there was my Golden Girls rerun phase - sorry honey. Thank goodness my husband is a patient man.
My patterns have usually (not always) been age appropriate at least. So apparently, I've reached a whole new level of sickness on the addiction spectrum. And it is with shock and shame that I admit I'm an official TWILIGHTER!!! It's LITERARY CRACK. It hooked me with its first paragraph, invading my soul with the Edward/Bella drug, thus spiraling me out of control. The worst part about this whole thing is that I was the one teasing my friends about their obsession with this freaking series of books! The movie had no appeal to me. I mean, I don't do vampires. Not in movies, books, or HBO shows. I tolerated the Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie back in the early 90s out of sheer devotion for Luke Perry (hey, don't judge). Enter this freaking book! And just like that, I was sucked into another universe of forests, Cullens, werewolves, and romance.
I'm 29 years old for goodness sake! My poor husband can be in mid-sentence and sees that look in my eyes and just saves his breath, knowing that my thoughts are a million miles away in Forks, Washington. I read the first book in less than 48 hours. The second one took the same amount of time and the third flew by faster than a silver Volvo on a wet winding road!
And now I'm in the middle of the fourth and final dose of ridiculousness and with each page I turn, a little piece of me dies. The realization that it's all going to be over soon is too much to accept. I'm literally trying to slow down the speed at which I digest this fantastic word substance simply to prolong my relationship with this world. I am officially 16 years old. I realize that Stephanie Meyer did not write this beautiful, adolescent, and torturous love story for me. In no way am I her target audience. This stuff is for teenage girls! And here I am, a prisoner in my own home. Rock asks me to go to dinner. No thanks, I'd rather cook at home and read. Rock asks me to go see a movie. Nope, I'd rather escape to my couch where I can curl up and wait for one of Alice's visions. As if any film will captivate me in such a way that I'd rather sit in a sticky-floored theater eating stale popcorn. And I know that with each chapter I read, my sweet spouse is breathing a sigh of relief that it will be all over soon.
I've learned not to judge a book by its cover. Things aren't always what they seem. I admit I have a problem. But if I could just get back to my book...
My patterns have usually (not always) been age appropriate at least. So apparently, I've reached a whole new level of sickness on the addiction spectrum. And it is with shock and shame that I admit I'm an official TWILIGHTER!!! It's LITERARY CRACK. It hooked me with its first paragraph, invading my soul with the Edward/Bella drug, thus spiraling me out of control. The worst part about this whole thing is that I was the one teasing my friends about their obsession with this freaking series of books! The movie had no appeal to me. I mean, I don't do vampires. Not in movies, books, or HBO shows. I tolerated the Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie back in the early 90s out of sheer devotion for Luke Perry (hey, don't judge). Enter this freaking book! And just like that, I was sucked into another universe of forests, Cullens, werewolves, and romance.
I'm 29 years old for goodness sake! My poor husband can be in mid-sentence and sees that look in my eyes and just saves his breath, knowing that my thoughts are a million miles away in Forks, Washington. I read the first book in less than 48 hours. The second one took the same amount of time and the third flew by faster than a silver Volvo on a wet winding road!
And now I'm in the middle of the fourth and final dose of ridiculousness and with each page I turn, a little piece of me dies. The realization that it's all going to be over soon is too much to accept. I'm literally trying to slow down the speed at which I digest this fantastic word substance simply to prolong my relationship with this world. I am officially 16 years old. I realize that Stephanie Meyer did not write this beautiful, adolescent, and torturous love story for me. In no way am I her target audience. This stuff is for teenage girls! And here I am, a prisoner in my own home. Rock asks me to go to dinner. No thanks, I'd rather cook at home and read. Rock asks me to go see a movie. Nope, I'd rather escape to my couch where I can curl up and wait for one of Alice's visions. As if any film will captivate me in such a way that I'd rather sit in a sticky-floored theater eating stale popcorn. And I know that with each chapter I read, my sweet spouse is breathing a sigh of relief that it will be all over soon.
I've learned not to judge a book by its cover. Things aren't always what they seem. I admit I have a problem. But if I could just get back to my book...
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