There are many reasons our local YMCA is important to us. There’s the free babysitting, the exercise equipment, the free babysitting, the showering alone (unless you count all the other women in the locker room), the free babysitting, and most importantly, THE FREE BABYSITTING.
Before we joined the Y, I’m pretty sure we had some sort of police report in our future. Mercifully, we were saved from my appearing in an episode of a Netflix series. And I am running at a pretty good clip theses days!
But there’s another reason to love the Y, and here it is:
Yes, the Y has a free bookshelf and I LIVE AND DIE by it. I feel in communion with this bookshelf. When I am feeling defeated, down, and utterly useless, it knows, and offers me — no, not comfort — but comfort food, or the literary equivalent of comfort food. There are books by authors I’ve followed, or books in genres that have claimed me as their own, or bestsellers from years ago that I swore were too popular to read, but then turned out to be good. The Y bookshelf offers me books in which I can lose myself.
Granted, it’s not jam-packed with goodies every time, and luckily so, because despite the workouts, a girl can only carry so much (or more to the point, fit so much in her apartment). But I manage to pull something interesting off of it at least once a week. Occasionally, it’s something divine.
Granted, there are quirks. The bookshelf has a habit of offering books 1 and 3 in a trilogy, and once I thought I was going to have to fight a rather determined dowager for the last issue of Canadian Quilter.
And today, there was this:
It’s a real book. With covers. And a list of celebrities on the back. Well, a list of names, anyway. The definition of celebrity seems to have been stretched to rather obese proportions.
But I was delighted, because the Y bookshelf knows just what it takes to cheer me up.