We moved into a new house when I was in junior high. My mother was
going nuts trying to figure out where to put the bookshelves in the
living room. There were shelves in the bedrooms and garage but not the
bedroom. I asked Mom why she was bothering. She answered "I worry when
I go to a house with no books."


With that in mind, books were a major decorating point for me in every
apartment I moved to. I always had shelves and the books on them
carefully arranged. I considered that people would visit and look at
the books and judge me accordingly. I read both lightweight novels and
classics but was careful to make sure I never left the trash out where
someone might see. That would be as embarrassing as leaving sex toys
out in full view.


The years went by. The book collection grew. Each move got harder and
harder as packing up the books and shipping them became more of a pita.
Finally, I moved in with my boyfriend and up here to New England. The
books took up the better part of the moving truck. Once up here, there
were 2 of us to debate where the books went and how to put the shelves
up. In a moment of inspiration, I realized that anyone who would judge
me or get to know me on the basis of the books on my shelves was shallow
and I was shallow for thinking such a thing was possible. How neurotic
could I get? Besides, there weren't that many guests over anyway, and I
could get ahold of any book I needed quickly with the Internet and the
library. In a quick rash decision, I gave away tons of books, books I'd
been saving lovingly for years. Sometimes I regret it. Mostly I don't.


--Lia