Usually when I hunker down for a day of reading—even if it is a crime book by a faux-TV author (Sigh. Let’s face it. It’s always a crime book by a faux-TV author)—I set myself up all properly in a nice clean living room and get acquainted with my best pal, the couch. But by about chapter 3, things start to break down and they only further devolve from there. I’m not sure if it’s a product of my general restlessness or the fact that my best pal is a lovely, but not so squishy, teal-blue velvet number, but I can just NEVER get comfortable with a book. Well, unless I’m on a beach with a tasty cocktail and a complimentary hotel and lounge chair. (Do not make me rent that crap, Resort. Otherwise, I’m back to being uncomfortable reading because all I’m thinking about is the nasty TripAdvisor review I have to write.)
Anyway, because George is awesome, he documented the relationship between me, my book, and the couch this weekend. And so I present, Alix's stages of reading:
This is how someone who is, say, modeling in a couch catalogue might read. Except maybe they wouldn’t be wearing Old Navy sweatpants. And maybe they wouldn’t be reading Raging Heat. Point being, this lasts for about ½ to ¾ of a chapter before I give up and dive into…
Okay. This seems normal right? I’m still relatively not embarrassing but I’m also definitely semi comfy. I get a solid three to five chapters out of this before things start to go south.
This position is neither comfortable nor productive. I’m trying to pretend like I’m not going to lay down completely—despite the coy addition of my blanket—but my freaking shouldearm is so scrunched up I start wishing I had like a book stand to hold my Castle in. Or maybe a robot who would read to me. Maximum chapter lastage: two.
Whoa, Nelly. First of all, I refuse to lay on and flatten my couch pillows. (Hi, I’m Type A.) Second of all, I’m too lazy to go upstairs and get my bed pillow. So that basically leaves this little gem of a position. I’m way off robots by this point. I’m remembering when I was a little kid and wanted so badly to somehow affix a hanger to the ceiling which would drop right above my head and in which I could balance my book. After 30-odd years, I still haven’t bothered to try, but it’s genius, right? Cause my arms are only so strong which means it’s not long until…
Chapters read? Zero. Dreams that I am married to at least one member of *NSYNC? Four.
What's your comfiest reading position?