Can I tell you a secret?
I love books. I’ve been having a 32 year love affair with books. If woman and object could marry I’d totally make that commitment with my books. Or my coffee maker.
No. I’m pretty sure my books.
Hubby and I joke that our decorating style is Early American Paperback. Our house is about filled to the brim with books. And I refuse to part with any of them – with the exception of the cookbook an ex-boyfriend gave me that I recently put in a box of donations for a friend’s new thrift store because the feng shui of that hanging around was just…bad.
Can I tell you another secret?
I like to smell my new books.
I’m the girl that arrives home from the bookstore and, before I will even crack open the spine, I’m flipping the pages and breathing in that wonderful, new book aroma. The pages are still crisp and cold – you open them just a bit and you’re overwhelmed with that clean, literary fragrance.
Oh, I love it.
My books for Spring semester are sitting on a shelf right now. Every once in a while when I walk past them I’ll pick one up and inhale the newness.
Someone should totally make a candle with new book smell.
But they sit there on that shelf and it’s like they beckon me. Psst, Neena! Come flip through me! You know you want to smell my newness and envision all the upcoming highlighter marks and Twain-style notes in the margins.
And, I can’t resist. I pick one up, caress and appreciate it’s pristine existence, and lean in for just a quick note of that glorious bouquet and all the learning potential it evokes within me.
I’m not weird. I promise.










