February 26, 2008 @ 7:27 am | Filed under: Uniquely Me

It’s almost scary how you can hear your mother’s voice inside your head at the weirdest moments.

Like last night.

I stood in the book store, holding one copy of the novel that I planned to buy for sure, and debating on whether or not to buy a second copy for myself.

The book, The Other Boleyn Girl, was a serious period piece and I knew that, as valiant as I might try, it was very doubtful that I would ever make it through to the end. I’m just not that into the Tudor and Elizabethan years even though, from a historical viewpoint, I find it all rather fascinating.

“Buy them both.” M encouraged me, but I could see the grin trying its best to crawl across his face. He is both in awe and amused at the ways and means of which my frugality sometimes shows itself.

The first book, a gift, would need to be shipped in the next few days to arrive in time for a birthday.

But I could skim it first, right…?

Just take a few quick peeks to see what great metaphors and imagery might lie just within the covers?

And then I heard it.

My mother’s voice.

And – truly – it was as though I were thirteen all over again.

“Isn’t that the book that you bought to give as a gift?” She had walked into my room, unannounced, and caught me deeply enthralled in a book I had purchased for a friend.

“Yes, but I’m being very careful. See?” I remember holding the book high, proud that I’d not even begun to crease the binding or smudge a page. “She’ll never know.”

“That is the rudest thing. You cannot do that.” She reached down and plucked the book out of my hands.

And that was that.

From that day until this one, I’ve not been able to crack a peek at a book that I had purchased as a gift.

Until last night.

We were at Borders, where Philippa Gregory, the author of The Other Boleyn Girl, would soon be speaking. Already, behind me, the chairs were quickly filling. I needed to make my decision, and quick.

It was simple, really. I would never finish the book, I knew that. Although I’d love to have a signed copy for myself, I attend enough book readings that I’m willing to wait for the ones I really covet. And this just wasn’t one of them.

I was there more for the author than the book itself. I love to hear ‘the story behind the story.’ And there is almost always a great one.

“Just this one.” I ignored M’s laughter as he took the book from me and headed to the register while I found us a couple of seats.

Minutes later, I sank into a chair amongst about seventy other readers, waiting for Philippa to make her appearance.

I relaxed against the back of the chair and took my first sip of the hot steamy cappacino I’d just purchased. It had been a good day, and the next hour promised to be equally as good.

I sat surrounded by feelings of just…goodness.

Good day.

Good coffee.

Good books.

Good company.

I was happy.

Not even the reprimanding voice of Mom could take that away.