Awedacity

I used to be a cocaine addict. Years later, a friend who had never even come close to flirting with addiction asked me Why? I thought for a moment, trying to come up with an experience that we might have in common that would help him to understand. And then it came to me.

I spent the next five years consuming a lot of coke in a futile effort to replicate that sensation.

I’m old enough to have fallen in love a couple of times. I knew this feeling, albeit not as strongly. I knew that it was an internal chemical high that would eventually dissipate. I decided to savour it and relaxed into it. Somewhere around the nine-month mark, it began to fade. Being together was pleasurable, but no longer super-charged. I felt the outside world again. And I realized how lucky we were to have re-experienced the insane joy of teenaged love. It had allowed us to make a lot of tough decisions (career changes, city moves, home purchase, MARRIAGE) with happy ease. Two cranky middle-aged people had created a life together without any of the stubbornness and vitriol that had previously prevented us making a commitment.

I’d just like to thank evolution for the chemical love rush and now look forward to enjoying the next, slower stage of love.

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I work from home as a contract editor and the last year has been very busy. Somewhere in July I realized that I was experiencing almost the same sensation I last felt when I was working as a bush cook in a survey camp in the Yukon (we were dropped off by helicoptor for weeks on end with a usual population of maybe 4 geologists and half a dozen guys with chain saws to do the line cutting). In the middle of Canada’s capital city, less than half an hour’s walk from the National Art Gallery, I found myself bushed. Which translated into some undeservedly snappy behavior toward my husband. At about the same time, I saw a “help wanted” sign at the local bookstore.

“Wow!” I thought. I’ve fantasized about working in a book store ever since I was a teenager (the second-hand bookstore I worked at during grade seven and where I spent most of my time fighting off the lecherous hunchbacked proprietor really doesn’t count, if you ask me). I applied and a few weeks later got the call. I was IN. I imagined myself shelving books, rearranging displays to better promote my favourite authors, and all the while having passionate and erudite literary conversations with discerning customers. Instead, I spent the first month at war with the extremely cranky DOS system used by most independent bookstores. And it seems that for every book that is sold, two more will arrive and need to be processed, stickered, and shelved. Plus, after a year of pretty much sitting on my ass, standing up for hours made my feet hurt in a way that reminded of my years in the service industry. I came home three days a week in a very nasty mood. My husband suggested that the new job didn’t seem to be having the desired result.

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, it clicked over. I bought a pair of comfortable shoes. I no longer automatically reached for the mouse to make a transaction. I learned the secret codes of each supplier. I created the Halloween book display and watched my favourite authors start to move. I started to choose books from the catalogues, ordering a couple of copies to test the waters. I began to receive publishers’ advance reader copies of upcoming books to read and review–any bibliophile can only be thrilled to read a book months before the rest of the world will. I found the perfect gift book for a difficult customer. I arranged a display shelf that counterpointed Christian and atheist books. And today, an award-winning writer dropped in to find a book and we had a half-hour conversation about the history of the English language and our favourite books! A few minutes later, another author stopped in and, under the guise of asking me to look up some titles, made some very waspish comments about his competitors. Oh bliss, oh dream job. If only everyone had a few short shifts a week in an independent bookstore, the world might be a happier place.

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