The Underrating Of Living Without A Life

I was out with a married couple on Saturday night which is always interesting for me, kind of like attending a comedy club only without having to pay anything to get in. This is especially interesting when it’s a couple I like, as I do this one. Call me easily entertained (I am), but I enjoy watching the things married people do, many of which I did at one time myself although at the time, I couldn’t appreciate the humor. For one thing, the whole ‘Let’s finish each other’s sentences’ thing, which went on well past the appetizers and into the entrée ordering. For another, the whole ‘Oh try it, you know you like it’s that started when the mind-numbing array of sauces for the filets were presented in delicate little ramekins that appeared to have been hand-carved by Norwegian elves (and considering the going rate for an entrée in that particular restaurant, probably were), which was followed quite nicely by the ‘Oh, don’t eat that, you know it’s going to upset your stomach/keep you awake tonight/make you stink like garlic and I won’t be able to stand you’s, and by the time we selected dessert the Grand Finale, (my personal favorite) had begun, the small talk interspersed with fond eye-rollings and ‘Oh, you don’t really mean that’s which go nicely with espresso and miniature pastry.

I really get a kick out of stuff like that.

Not that I mind finishing my own sentences and not that I miss rolling my eyes so much (there’s a part of me, even as a semi-reasonable adult, that still believes what my mom always said, that one of these days I’d roll them and they’d stick up there, wedged solid forever and I’d never be able to look at anyone straight in the face again) and certainly, come to think of it, not that I mind being able to order what I want, decide if I like it all by myself, and have complete freedom to pursue life, liberty, and the occasional liberal intake of garlic without comment from anyone. I just find it endearing, more or less, in married people and again, rather amusing. Especially when I like the married people and I like these two very much. They belong together and would seem strange without each other, kind of like trying to make sense of a Lifetime Television For Women movie without the benefit of microwave popcorn.

So the small talk, as I said, began, and at one point I mentioned that in all honesty, one of the highlights of my past week was that I had finally ventured into the library so conveniently located a block from my house and obtained a library card. Not that I didn’t have a library card, because I did. I just hadn’t used it in nearly eight years (never join a book club. You will only buy more books than you will ever read in a ridiculous attempt to ‘spend’ bonus points accrued never mind you only accrue more points with each purchase. It’s a vicious, endless cycle). It was apparently still active in the system (which amused me because I have no earthly idea where it is and the thought that, unbeknownst to me, it was pretty much traipsing around the county library system at will made me wonder if maybe those earrings I lost three months ago weren’t active somewhere as well), but I couldn’t simply use it. That would be too easy.

What I had to do, apparently, because I’d changed my address (this confused them) as well as my name (this threw them completely over the edge) and not used the card at all in eight years (regardless of how active it was. This appeared to make them almost angry and made me, for a moment, want to recount to them just exactly how many books I’d read in those eight years, never mind I hadn’t ‘borrowed’ a single one of them) was to set up an entirely new card. Which was easily done by showing two forms of ID, handing over $3.00, and leaning on the counter for a full fifteen minutes while the clerk ‘processed and activated’ my new card, pausing for a moment of silence (or maybe it only appeared so to me) as she deactivated my old card, sending it off into the Afterworld of library cards improperly (I knew she thought) appreciated. I couldn’t help feeling like a criminal, about to be fingerprinted and trotted before a judge.

Still, the feeling passed when I had the card in my hand, and I soon left the library with four books I really wanted to read, bypassing the magazines, movies, CDs and other miscellaneous and sundry items she assured me I could have up to thirty of at one time. I felt very good about having that library card, and I mentioned this to The Husband, seated to my right.

He shook his head. “You really,” he said, “need to consider getting a life.” He leaned forward a bit and squinted at me then, as if I was as odd and foreign as some of the sauces presented earlier. “You’re the only person I know over thirty who actually has a library card.”

I digested that, because it was probably true. Still, my only response was a shrug and a, “Well, I’m easily entertained, and I like to read,” because that was true, too. The Wife, however, took a moment to roll her eyes at him (clearly, her mother was not so much a doomsayer as mine had been) and small talk progressed to other, more exciting matters (I believe it was then that we started debating the relative merits and deterrents of several brands of cat food).

For a moment, I wanted to explain to The Husband that if having a library card meant a person didn’t have a life, then the very act of living without a life was entirely underrated. I have had a small satellite dish affixed to my building that brings me, at the push of a button, in excess of 245 channels, three of which I watch and on two of which I find anything even remotely entertaining. The last Tom Wolfe novel I read kept me entertained for days. I have purchased and either broken, misplaced, or given away, any number of items of clothing, shoes, household appliances and semi high-tech gadgets yet I have never, not once in my life, misplaced a library book. To me, losing a library book would be like losing a diamond ring, especially if it was on loan to you from someone else. There’s just something about a library book that makes it enjoyable, even if it’s not the best book you’ve ever read. It’s not yours, to begin with, and you only have it for a limited time, so there’s the whole added pressure to get it read and get it returned safely. It’s like legal shoplifting, this ability to take anything you want and then return it weeks later with no questions asked.
It’s like having access to hours of entertainment, and they cost you nothing. It’s so wonderful, really, it can make a person feel almost guilty, as if they should leave a tip or something for the library clerk on the way out (unless, of course, said clerk leaves you feeling like a criminal because you underappreciated your active card).

I thought about explaining this to The Husband, but decided against it. We’d probably just have launched into a very long, very involved conversation debating the relative pros and cons of the matter, which would have made us late for the show we were headed to, which, incidentally, featured an author whose books I truly love.

It was nice to know, even if I was the only one at the table who could truly appreciate the fact, that I’d never have to pay for those books again.