life as a book.

Firsts are always things that we find worthy enough to commit to memory. Though we are flooded with information and events on a daily basis, firsts seem to have a sticking power beyond algebra or present participles. The first few moments on an unaided bicycle. The first disappointing grade on a school paper. The first traumatic day after an awful haircut. Our lives are an endless string of firsts. Yet even among all the important firsts, the ones dearest to the heart are those that are most lucid. The first kiss. The first crush. The first broken heart.

I was reflecting on my first broken heart a couple days ago, and it got me thinking about…books. Non-sequitor maybe, but stick with me on this one.

When I was in the seventh grade, I was “the new girl” in school. As is typical for most new girls, I became the instant affection of a dozen seventh grade boys. Though I had my pick of the batch, something about Craig caught my attention. He liked good music, had good hair and wore funny t-shirts… what else could a girl want? One fateful day I told my friend, who told his friend, who told him that I liked him – after which – he told his friend, who told my friend, who told me that he liked me too. It was official. We were “going-out.”

Our love may not have been the strongest in the history of mankind, but it was nice. We sat next to each other in class and walked around the field during recess – all the telltale signs of a solid twelve-year-old relationship. One day, however, things began to sour. Craig stopped waiting for me after class. I no longer got thoughtful notes folded into delicate origami shapes. Recess was spent sitting on the brick wall, overlooking Craig and his friends play flag football. Within the week, Craig broke up with me via a note (how typical), which was delivered during homeroom.

Getting broken up with is hard enough, much less in front of an entire classroom of seventh grade nincompoops. I swallowed hard, choking back the tingling fire that had set ablaze in the seat of my throat. As the tears began to come I was desperate to find a distraction. Reaching into my desk for a disguise, I pulled out a copy of The Giver. I was twelve-years-old, broken-hearted, and crying in front of my peers. There was nothing else I could do but hide behind the hardback cover of a book until it was safe enough to come out.

In a way, that book saved my day. It served as a shield from embarrassment … from my first broken heart. The Giver gave me another world (much better and more interesting than my own) to escape to for the day.

While engrossed in literature there is a comfort that all has been said and done. The future is certain, lying just a few pages ahead in solid black and white. Even if you are halfway through the book, you know that the end is coming. Even if you want to change things, you can’t. Even if you hate the book, you always have the option to stop reading. Things are just easier when you read them in a book.

Reality isn’t quite as generous. Every moment is filled with uncertainty and the weighted thought that all your actions impact your future. You can’t flip to the next chapter, or reread a previous one. You can’t rest assure that the end is already certain. To be quite honest, reality isn’t a convenient as books.

It is however, much more exciting.