There is nothing worse, at least for today, than picking up a novel, publication, resource book, to find the bookmark has gone missing.
I read so rapidly, it’s tough to recall where I was unless I re-read a few pages to get back into the song and dance of it. Getting back on track with anything takes awhile, which makes me utterly impatient, especially with a book since I don’t get much time to "leisure" read.
The pleasure slowly putt-putts out like a groaning balloon losing its luster. It becomes work to find my spot and then I’m lost in the frustration versus the basic joy of reading.
It’s than work, effort to find my place again. A chore to meander through those lost pages. I detest backtracking while biking, running, Sunday driving, even taking a walk with the dog(s.)
It’s as though I have to deduct the distance from my total for the day. Minus the pleasure, subtract the accomplishment. Rewind to the point where I feel good, justified in jotting the achievement on my calendar is painstakingly difficult.
Who is responsible for slipping the paper out of the wedge? Who was careless and envious of my leisure reading project? Who doesn’t give a damn about humankind? Who who who??
It’s me Who seeks Revenge! For she is the only sense of satisfaction in this saga.
Then I realize the Truth. Since no one but three dogs are sequestered in this house (no ghost that I’m aware of) it must have been:
a. ME!
b. one of the dogs
I can hardly claim responsibility. Though, the alternative is to take it out on one of them. Surely, the swipe of a tail (in joy, anguish, guarding the house, excitement, disenchantment) can’t be blamed.
Sigh.
I shuffle through a few chapters to locate the last few sentences I read and mark my page once again.
Next time, I’ll place the book higher up, so the Happy Tails can’t get to it.
Problem solved.
What does this have to do with downsizing?