Hello, my name is Bonnie and I am a Reader.

Not just a reader. I am a capital ‘R’ Reader. A Nerdy-Nerd Reader.

It is with reluctance that I admit that I prefer reading to, umm, pretty much anything. Right beside all the pairs of reading glasses that I referred to in my last blog post, you will probably find a book: on my desk, in my purse, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, on my bedside table and in the car. While waiting in line at Costco (buying more reading glasses, hello?), I will pull out my purse-book and read. In fact, in the middle of a particularly good book, I will pick the long lineup.

My reluctance at admitting this is because, well… people. People don’t like to hear that they’re not as exciting to hang out with as the latest Cormoran Strike (and Robin!) installment from Kenneth Galbraith (a.k.a. J. K. Rowling). Or whatever Anne Lamott, A. J. Jacobs or Liane Moriarty has cooked up lately. Or whatever C. S. Lewis, A. A. Milne or Agatha Christie cooked up a long time ago.

An exception might extend to hanging out with other people who supposedly love books, but that doesn’t always go well (as you can find out here.)

Given this preamble, you might think that I was a reading prodigy – someone who first read at the ripe old age of maybe…four. But no, you would be wrong.

Although I grew up in a Reading Family, I was slow to the uptake. I can remember my eleven-year-old sister lording it over five-year-old me that I did not know how to read yet. And me, baffled that I had been denied the keys to the Reading Kingdom. After all I had been a dedicated fan of Sesame Street: it was a large part of my pre-school education.

Here’s a painful memory: in Grade One, our class was separated into two reading groups. If you were ahead of the curve, you joined the Bunny circle. If you weren’t, you were relegated to the Brownies.

Three things bothered me about this.

First: Bunnies were my favorite. I mean, seriously, my name? Bonnie? Pretty close. I had a bunny collection. I was quiet and nervous. I felt denied from something that I truly related to.

Second: What sort of sense did Brownies and Bunnies make, except starting with the same letter? I could have more easily accepted Brownies and Greenies. Or Bunnies and Turtles. But maybe that’s just me.

Lastly, my own favorite Auntie Evelyn was a substitute teacher at the time. So, there was a first-hand family witness to my Brownie-ness.

I don’t remember if I had an aha! moment – like when it all clicked for me. But eventually I could read and our class became One Big Happy Reading Circle. By Grade Two I was a Confident Reader and loved to be called on to read aloud in class. Until that one day after the day I had stayed home sick when the whole class learned about Silent Letters. (Silent Letters are jerks.) How was I supposed to know it wasn’t an IZLAND? IS? LAND? I can’t even.

You can be sure I never forgot that lesson. In fact, I have now become a Corrector. As in, umm, you’re pronouncing it wrong. Okay, maybe I just say it to you in my head. Unless you’re my husband. (Sorry, Rick.)

Given, these early episodes of Reading Trauma, you might guess I was ready to throw in the Proverbial Reading Towel. Except that trauma aside, there were Reading Mysteries that were unveiled that were just way too interesting to me. And not just the literal mysteries of Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden or Encyclopedia Brown. Reading held the key to learning about Ancient Greece (a favorite era), New York City (where it seemed all Scholastic books were set) and Lions and Scarecrows and Wizards of Oz.

And so books continue to intrigue, inform and entertain me. My bunny collection might be long gone. But my book collection is going strong.