You are what you buy to read

Working at the l.n.c.b., one is in a position to observe people's secret desires, fears and obsessions. Consider:

The cuddling couple who bought three wedding magazines, a book about having the perfect honeymoon, and a football magazine

The lady d'une certaine age who refused to believe we didn't have in stock "All Families Are Psychotic" by Douglas Coupland (whose name she insisted on pronouncing "coop-lund")

The man and woman who came in, twenty minutes apart, each looking for books on lonliness.

About those two, my friends whom I tell about them always say, "Why didn't you introduce them?" The truth is, it didn't occur to me. But to say to someone, "Why, that trollish guy over there was just asking for the same thing! Why don't you chat with each other instead of wallowing in your separate hells?" -- that would be a little intrusive, I think. My job is simply to lead them to the "Self-Help" section and wish them well.

It's all a little like being a shrink, perhaps, except people come up and lay their interests and obsessions literally before you. You put them in a bag and give them back to them, after charging them money for them.

To better endure my hours standing on my feet at the end of the day, I have done two things: started taking Ibuprofen before and during a shift, and bought the fattest, most cushy and expensive Dr. Scholl's shoe inserts. The results of these steps is that I'm no longer utterly exhuasted at the end of the shift. Last Wednesday I actually had a little bit of energy by the end of the day.

This is my day off. As usual I spent it doing errands and exercising. Then in the evening, Cris had a date, so it's my chance to sit around reading and playing the Bob Dylan CDs she hates. Quelle luxe.