Some days, maybe not very many at all, let's say the rare ones where I feel notably unmotivated, where I stayed up too late drinking cappuccinos and writing blog posts, the days where all work is an effort and most interactions are irritating. Some days everything goes except my interest in the books. I don't want to talk to people at work, or get things done. I don't want more coffee or to write a blog post in the cracks of between work time. I don't get terribly mad or irritated or start fixing things in my mind. I don't even want to go home sick. I just want to read this ever changing plethora of things traveling through my hands. I just want to read!
What am I supposed to be doing? Shelving. What am I doing? Reading. Oh, I'd better shelve. I'd better put a little speed into it to make up for that reading, but two books later I am reading again. I didn't mean to, but it's a book, about this person, and people are interesting.
I'm at the front desk, but I am lost. I'm sorry I didn't see you there. There was this book, about a house, and a lake. I saw type. I made the author's meaning. I didn't see you. I was there. How can I help you?
I used to make the joke pretty often, but it's been awhile. And I really only mean it on these rare, strong days when I might not be getting to my full share of the work. They put an alcoholic in charge of the bar. Here, at the library. One for me, one for you. One for me. I'm not sure we're making much money here.