My Little Addiction
As humans in the modern era, we all have a lot of stuff. Things accumulate in our lives, filling the nooks and crannies of our physical spaces until we wonder where it all came from. In fact, there’s a movement right now crusading against this, led by TikTokers, called underconsumption core—thriving on less. Where does all this stuff come from? Well, for some of my stuff, I have an answer, and to get there I need to talk about addiction.
Now, don’t you worry about me. My addiction is an addiction to stuff. And by stuff, I mean books. Too many. I have two bookshelves in my tiny little NYC apartment, and still my dresser is now half covered in the damn things. They’re stacked two layers deep, and they don’t stop coming. Where do they all come from?!
Just kidding. I know all too well. For example, just the other day a friend and I were walking around the Union Square area, perusing the farmer’s market and just enjoying catching up after a long time apart. She wanted a coffee, and we both wanted some air conditioning, so Barnes & Noble beckoned. You can probably guess which one of us suggested the NYC book mecca as our solution. I survived the first floor. We walked around for a while, admiring the new hardcovers and the tables that greet you when you walk in the door. I didn’t pick up anything. I was doing well.
We went up to the third floor to get some coffee for my friend, where once again I resisted spending any money. But then we found ourselves on the fourth floor, home to shelves upon shelves of fiction, my one true vice. I thought to myself, Why don’t I see if they have that one Vonnegut I’ve been meaning to read? That was it; the seal was broken. I left the store not twenty minutes later with four books. As though I didn’t have a dozen TBRs (to-be-reads) already taking up space in my room.
I want to blame my friend for not helping me resist when I had asked her to, but that would be a farce. She would not have been able to get me out of there without a book unless she’d duck taped my hands together and dragged me from the place. Now, these four books sit on my dresser alongside one, two, three, I just counted, thirteen additional TBRs.
Lord, there is something wrong with me. Even when I have more books than I can possibly read at once, I feel the need for more. Even when I have no more space for stuff, I feel the need for more. One day, when I leave this apartment and have to cart all my stuff with me, these four new books might be the difference between six boxes and seven. My poor back.
I love books. I love buying them new and stamping them in green ink, “From the Library of Olivia Hill.” (Thank you sisters for that wonderful gift, something I’d recommend for any book addict.) I love stacking them up and admiring them and smelling them and most of all reading them. But that’s beside the point.
The point is that I’ve let these material objects wield so much power over me. When I pass a bookstore, I go weak in the knees, I hyperventilate, I begin to tear up and smush my face against the tantalizing window display. Not really, but I might as well, with how little resistance I have to the damn things.
Is this an addiction I am actively working to overcome, you ask? Absolutely not. As long as I have a steady income—and even if I don’t—I will be adding books to my collection. I feel the need to read. In this economy?! You bet. Would I buy them in a house? Yup. Would I buy them with a mouse? Hell yeah.
In this era of too much stuff, a lot of mine happens to be made of paper. So what? Beats some other addictions I could have. Bottom line is, we all have too much stuff, but if you plan on adding stuff to your stuff, make sure it’s stuff that makes you happy. Otherwise, that stuff is just fluff. For me, too many books is just enough.