Fifty-Two; Glossy Paper
I am attracted to big box bookstores like a moth to a flame, especially in the months leading up to the holidays. The Fir scented candles, the oversized scarves, the smell of hot coffee and the endless aisles of hardcover books are my kryptonite.
I touch and smell each item individually, and my tiny little woman brain lights up with all the scenarios that could be possible for me with a little more curation and a lot more budget.
I’m already a woman who reads, but I could be one who reads and wears head-to-toe linen, grows peonies, goes antiquing, drives an electric car, and buys produce at farmers' markets. Maybe I could be someone who knows about investing and has a capsule wardrobe, solar panels, matching towels, refinishes furniture and takes adult dance lessons in a way that doesn’t seem sad.
The ideas become more and more extreme and intrusive the deeper I get into the store. My capsule wardrobe becomes 80% cashmere, and I now have an imaginary guest bathroom with bold wallpaper. And I don’t just shop at the farmers market anymore; I have a stall selling artisanal pickles and jams, and I invest the profits into cryptocurrency or gold bars.
Then… I cross over into the cookbook section, and it’s game over.
The crisp, glossy pages hypnotize me to an even deeper false reality. One where I can chop, dice, blend, fold, braise, fry, and bake a well-balanced, flavourful offering of my love. I invent a world where not only do I know how to meal prep, but I also know how to bone a whole duck for my fifteen-person dinner party held in my perfect mid-century-inspired dining room.
I stand in the store, flip through a handful of books, and let the could-be wash over me until I can barely see straight anymore. The perfume from the scented candles has cast a Nancy Meyers spell on me. I’m longing for the ability to “whip something up” and for people to compliment my interior design style in a way I never have.
Eventually, something will snap me from my trance, either an impatient shopping buddy or the store closing announcement. I’ll place the cookbook (and all my hopes and dreams) on the shelf and slowly back away. I check out the one literary fiction book I let myself have every few months and exit the store back to my reality- a rental apartment with furniture from Goodwill and a complete and utter inability to whip anything up.
The spell lingers on the drive home; my mind continues to wander and wonder what could be possible for me with a slight shift in priorities.
By the time I’m back home, the spell has mostly worn off. I light my one discounted candle and fry another sad egg for myself for dinner. I look around at my mismatched knick-nacks and piles of used books on the floor and sigh loudly over how not one corner of my apartment is photogenic.
The big box bookstore's charm eventually wholly disappears.
My home, my wardrobe, my hobbies, my investment portfolio- none of it is worthy of glossy paper, but it’s all of my own design. It’s small, quiet, and a little dusty sometimes, but it fits me like a luxury cashmere sweater.
I could maybe spend a bit more time honing my skills in the kitchen if only to improve my overall level of nourishment, but other than that… I have no notes.