If you had spoken to the high school version of my self and told him that in his 30′s he would spend several midnights waiting for books, I am sure he would laugh at you.
Once again, however, here I stand. I fear that every time I have done this it has been in relation to “young adult” books. Up until this moment I had only ventured out at the witching hour to spend time with a certain scar wearing boy wizard. This, though odd, was somewhat acceptable because every walk of life was out on these nights of Harry Potter mania. Young and old alike came out so I never felt really out of sorts.
Tonight, however, I feel very out of place. Sadly I must admit that a delivery of books meant for my mother-in-law that was left at my home gave a hungry mind access to what people refer to as the Twilight saga. Yes, that is right, I am currently waiting for a book that is supposed to be for young adults, mostly those not of my gender. Around me is a sea of estrogen with a few random examples of testosterone who I believe have been dragged here either by girlfriends or daughters. I am here for neither. I am here for myself.
Should I be emberassed? Ashamed? I feel very much like I did the day I went hunting for the book Eldest after reading my nieces copy of Eragon. When I approached the clerk at the bookstore I will never forget the feeling in my gutt when I was told, “Oh, that is in the young adult section.”
I should really be at home in bed.
Another uplifting feeling is that I am on the standby list, and they keep naming names of people that can get the book. “Please line up Deborah C. Katherine E. Stacey L. William W. Emily E. Nancy C.” One of these things is not the same. One of these things is not like the other.
Oh what a dork I am.