Buying Books – It’s A Sucker’s Play.

Growing up, my aunts always had books around their house. On the coffee table, on their nightstands, even the kitchen counter.

Compared to us shoddily dressed country folk, they were highly educated women. Cultured.

I remember touching their books. Smelling them. Marveling at their pristine pages; not a single dog-ear among them. And a part of me came to equate books – or better, the luxury to be able to afford your own books – to be a sign of success.

Having moved now about 20 times in the past 20 years, I’ve come to the realization lately that these very symbols of success have become my personal albatross.

I lay awake the other night wondering how many times I’ve paid some sweaty moving guys to lug my treasures up and down stairs. Across state lines. Even into another century.

Silly.

Especially when I asked myself, “How many had I ever read more than once?” Or, for that matter, planned to read again.

So I’m selling off most of my books; some of which have been lovingly packed away in boxes since I graduated college. Selling them for mere pennies. Shedding a tear or two here and there as they go back into the world.

And I feel better.

So take a tip from our Uncle Ter. Consider a library card.

If you love books like I do, unless you’re buying nighttime stories that’ll be read over and over, must-have cookbooks, or (for you bead mumbles) a bible – take the bushel or two of hard earned lucre you would have spent on these papyrus parcels and do something else. (emphasis on the “do” part there…)

Hit the library.

Believe it or not, picking up a well-loved book – with its edges a bit worn, its pages a bit oiled – the very act will actually touch you back.