Browsing seems to me a futile pursuit. I don’t see the point of looking at cool shit and pretty things unless I can possess them; “window shopping” is an absurd oxymoron which should only be employed if you are, indeed, in the market for windows. Lest you think me shallow and materialistic—attempting to fill a yawning spiritual void with shoes and lipstick—this applies to the library as well.

Scrubbing my toes in the shower this morning, I was struck by the terror that what I thought were calluses were actually bunions. Bunions! I had a sudden vision of the near future, a bleak time in which I sport drugstore sneakers with holes cut in the sides to accomodate my hideous deformity.

My first impulse was to check the internet. WebMD, here I come! (Again.) Then, nostalgia: when was the last time I checked a book for information? Even a bloody dictionary, for fuck’s sake. I decided to be patient, and see what the stacks at work have to offer.

I could check the catalog—online, of course; the charming, inefficient card files having long been forced into obsolescence—and see exactly where to find information about feet: the expedient choice, yet a pursuit lacking the pleasure of lingering between wooden bookcases older and taller than I’ll ever be, fingering spines until I discover the desired volume.

Libraries have always held for me an irresistible allure, more of a tangible, sensual romanticism than the proverbial naughty librarian *fantasy. I love being surrounded by books. I feel lucky to work in a place which brings me endless **comfort and joy, but as I accumulate more responsibility I have less time to explore my library, let alone to become blissfully lost. I can’t recall the last time I picked up new reading material by browsing our shelves; when I do find myself grazing through Fiction, I’m inevitably drawn to the same authors, the same stories.

Where is my sense of adventure, my childlike wonder? I know I’m not so jaded, or so foolish to believe that I’ve seen it all; I’ve merely been so absorbed by my workaday tasks that I have forgotten the simple, unadulterated delights to be had a few steps from my desk. I just need to make a little time every day, even just a few minutes, to lose myself in the most familiar of surroundings.

(Turns out I don’t have bunions; I just really need a pedicure.)

*I would never consider anything so crass as actually fucking inside the library, though I will admit to a few idle daydreams about the secluded book storage room at Main (which smells just like elementary school; a scent I find comforting, and inexplicably arousing), and a frequent urge to coax a beautiful boy into the stacks and steal a kiss or two.

**Despite cracking a thesaurus in search of a less-seasonal phrase, this is the only one that fits.