You know that rare feeling, when everything comes together to make you feel complete, to feel absolutely content with life, and you would be happy to...
Does anyone else have this problem? It’s almost as bad an addiction as my cravings for chocolate.
So I’m a
collector of sorts; I find the artists, buy the books, study the books, and
guard them from my family as if they are a precious, fragile china dish
set. I spend money on them, time on
them, I appreciate them to the point that they become like friends to me, the
only ones in my home that understand my love for the arts.
I remember spluttering, my eyes going wide as I squeezed my hands open and closed in an anxious manner. My poor husband just sat there on the ground, art books in hand and lap, with a perplexed look on his face. He had no idea, there was really no reason why he should be worried about moving the art books, he was just trying to help out with the unpacking. With careful control over my temper, (I have been named ‘hot blooded’ a few times in my life for a reason), I did my best to explain to him why I didn’t want him touching my art books or art supplies, not that I had any problem with him looking through them, I just didn’t want him to ‘organize’ them. He thought I had lost my mind with how shook up I was about my books being messed with. No other stack of books (which there are many in my home), had brought on such emotion, so I told myself again; he was just trying to help and I needed to be patient. I explained again that they were special to me and I didn’t want other’s messing with them, especially since the children could reach the books where he was placing them. It took a few moments, I don’t think he understood my reasoning, but in the end the fact that I would care for my art things and I didn’t want others touching them was enough for him.
The whole
situation was silly; yes his placement of the books on the floor was not the
wisest, yes I over reacted quite a bit, even I recognized that at the time, but
for some reason I have this clingy love of my art books and at the time of
moving into a new home AGAIN, I needed to know I had control over my art
supplies.
You can
laugh all you want, you probably think I need a therapist or someone if I’m so obsessed
with something so simple, I don’t mind it at all. My love of my art books is a little overdose,
but don’t we all have something so important to us that we don’t want others
messing it up or moving it a ‘bout? Do
you know what yours is?
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