There’s a sale that I hit up twice a year. May and December. I save up. I clip coupons. I permanent-marker the sale dates into my planner. I go prepared. Mental lists and post-it lists.
I am a book-lover on a mission.
I pull into the familiar lot. Park. Walk inside and grab a cart. Game on.
I maneuver through the aisles. I scan. I scrutinize. I seize book after book. My cart fills. I fill. With anticipation. Because I know that the minute I check-out, use my coupon, pat myself on the back at the amount I saved, and head out the door, I’m all set. Until the next sale. I’m set to dive into adventure. Into awe-inspiring tales spun by award-winning authors. I’m set to live out lives of mystery, suspense, and drama that I will never actually live.
But there’s one thing I always forget to take into consideration while I’m piling books into my cart: the size of my bookshelf. Before May, it looks like I’ll need a bigger one.