My friend Melissa has a way of being kind that also makes me think.
We were out for coffee, talking about books. Specifically: about my anxiety about wanting to read more. By most measures, I read a lot, but with the advent of smart phones and parenthood, I read less then I used to. Recently, I’ve been trying to change that balance, with some success.
“I’m trying to be okay with it when I just want to read murder mysteries,” I said. “I mean, who cares if I read trashy books?”
Her eyes widened. “But they’re not trashy,” she said. “They’re light.”
I nodded, and the conversation turned to other topics. But later, considering her words, something clicked.
‘Trashy’ is kind of a mean word, isn’t it?
Melissa didn’t let me get away with using that word because it’s unkind. Why did I speak so harshly about something that brings me joy? (Because OH MY GOSH I LOVE MURDER MYSTERIES).
Would it surprise you to learn I’m an English major? English majors spend years reading Great Literature. We maybe feel slightly superior because we a) got all the way through The Sound and the Fury, b) understood it, and c) the clincher! LIKED IT.
To paraphrase Kate Moss, nothing tastes better than hard work feels.
Except does it? Really?
I was at the Mudroom last week, talking about how the words I use impact my anxiety, my identity, and the kindness with which I move in the world. Won’t you join me to read the rest?