Yesterday I felt the need for a bit of therapeutic wandering, the best, and most therapeutic, wandering – for me, is most oft 
found in the undertaking of extensive, exploratory journeys where I dawdle, gander, meander, and mosey my way through the well-lit aisles of a bookstore. Betwixt the rows and tables and displays of beautifully bound words, my wandering turns to wonder, and my woes slowly fall like gently drifting autumn leaves. I’m left with unencumbered branches, quivering in anticipation of new growth.
Basically, I was feeling restless and sweet talked my husband into an afternoon at Barnes & Noble. By sweet talk, I mean I promised we could go to Home Depot afterward. That’s sweet of me, no? I think it’s sweet.
As soon as I walked through the doors, the smell of adventure, knowledge, and freshly brewed coffee began to peel away the layers of pent-up annoyances I’d been collecting like a suit of armor throughout the week, and as I passed the magazine racks, I began to feel like Julie Andrews on a mountain top instead of Quasimodo stuck in a bell tower. The bookstore is a magical place. I refrained from singing this time, it makes people think I’m coo-coo for cocoa puffs. I’m quite misunderstood.
One of my favorite things about the bookstore, aside from the obvious – books, books, and more books, is that I almost always leave with a story of my own to tell. I love to watch almost as much as I love to read. Everything and everyone. I silently watch and listen to those around me and collect their micro-stories in my mind, sometimes I keep them until they are forgotten or replaced, sometimes I write them down. There may be a book idea in there somewhere.
It was a little boy who caught my attention yesterday. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, adorable little thing with dark eyes framed with eyelashes some women would gladly give an appendage for, dark hair, an impish little smile and an armful of books. He was sporting a Captain America t-shirt, perfectly cuffed Levi’s, and a pair of red Converse sneakers, he looked liked an adorable force to be reckoned with. He stood there, trying to maintain his grip on the treasures he’d found when his dad rounded the corner.
“Did you pick one yet?” Dad looked a little nervous, at first I thought this was odd. Turned out he was right to be a little apprehensive, he’d obviously been in this spot before. While son was dressed for a bookstore battle of epic proportions, Dad’s faded Bass Pro Shop tee and checkered shorts made him look like an already defeated casualty.
“One? Uh, no. I’ve got four.” This kid had a warrior’s stance, he was ready for battle before Dad even knew there was going to a skirmish. Then again, I think Dad knew exactly what awaited him when his little man walked through the doors of that bookstore, I don’t think he had much of a defense strategy planned out though.
“We talked about this already, one today.”
“I know, and this is a series, so it counts as one, Dad.”
“They’re $15 each! One!”
“That doesn’t even make sense, I’ll be done with one book by like tomorrow probably, and then we’ll just have to come back.”
“How about we get one or none?”
That precious little book hoarder showed no fear in the face of this threat. If anything, he looked more determined, if not a little more than annoyed.
He kept a firm grip on the books, and a firmer grip on his resolve.
He wasn’t going to back down. He knew he needed those books.
“Sure Dad. If the complete and utter ruination of my entire life is your end goal for today, then we’ll go with one.”
Dad looked like he’d taken a shot to the neck. This kid was good. Did I mention he couldn’t have been more than eight years old? I love kids who read, they know how to use words.
Then he fired the final shot, “Besides, Mom said I could get them, so . . .”
Victory.
Dad defeated, books in hand, little-reader-man left the battlefield and made a beeline for the register before Dad could figure out what had just hit him.
My day ended with a venti iced coffee, a new Stephen King book – The Bazaar of Bad Dreams, and new gutters. I keep my promises and collected another story at the Home Depot, but I’m saving that one for later.
I’m thinking about starting an interactive series, two actually, here on The Qwiet Muse – I’d love to hear some feedback about the idea.
I’m in pain again and bitchy. Like, really bitchy, but not super bitchy because after all, I’m a frickin sweetheart. But boy, I’m angervated by so many things today, like faces. People’s faces are pissing me off, and their voices, and their breathing. I shouldn’t have left the house. I should have chosen somewhere OTHER than Walmart to get what I needed to get. I SHOULD have stayed in bed where it is quiet and I don’t have to see people and their faces. 
making me laugh, which is quite painful to do right now, but I was glad for it. If he wasn’t there I really might have gone a little postal in the electronics department. 
Was I rude? Maybe, but my pain and aggravation was building and I wanted to pull out my mace and blast the chick blocking the aisle, I chose instead to let my cart graze her ass and pushed my way past. 
I’m wearing my tiara right now actually, I think it looks fantastic with my grey tank top and my husband’s old plaid button up I cut the sleeves off of. I feel positively regal. I really wanted to go in search of a scepter or a wand of some sort to match, but my son forbid it. He seems to think there’s a chance I might hit someone with it. He’s probably right.
Lack of inspiration
As a woman, do you feel your voice in print is sometimes held to a different standard than your male counterparts?
The Qwiet Muse 