I am an incessant bathroom reader. If, at any given time during the day, I foresee spending more than 20 seconds in the bathroom, hands free, I absolutely must have something to read lest I shrivel up and die of an overwhelming boredom. If I had to go like right now, I would spend twenty minutes pre-relief foraging through a bookcase until I found just the right
novel to take into the bathroom and read half of one paragraph on page 127 before flushing the toilet and stuffing the book back on the shelf, thinking, "Until next time, buddy." At friends' houses I'll read anything within arms reach. I'll read the bottom of your Kleenex box (Dites adieu aux nez irrite
), your hand soap bottle (Contains aloe vera for its moisturizing benefits - Provides rich, abundant lather - Leaves hands feeling clean and silky-soft
), or the instructions on your tube of Crest (pea-sized amount in children under 6
). I heartily appreciate any water-wrinkled magazines or quotebooks left on the toilet for guests. While some find those Sign-This-Book-If-You-Use-The-Pot books tacky, I find them extraordinarily entertaining.
My need to consume information spills into my lunchtime as well. I don't want to talk to co-workers while I eat. And I don't want to stare into the acres upon acres of pasture and vineyard. I want to read, for the third time, that article on the effects of extended cold soak on anthocyanins in 1996 Lodi Cab Sauvs. I have read every readable piece of paper at my work. I have read the inventory sheets from the early 80s. I have read the time cards for the pickers, and worked out the math to determine who is working most, despite this having no bearing whatsoever on my life. I have read that random book on holistic cures for arthritis.
I don't know who I would blame for this, or whether it is even a problem.