A Classic Confession

I consider myself fairly well read. I read quite a bit. (Especially when I'm nursing a baby - woowee, I go through a lot of books then!) I read classics and fiction and biographies and cookbooks (yes) and non-fiction and humor and juvenile... you get the point. (My favorite is historical fiction, by the way.)

But it's confession time. I have never read The Lord of the Rings.

Oh, the horror!

It's Mr. Boitano's fault. At least, I think that's his name. Anywho, he was my 8th grade homeroom teacher. I don't remember much about homeroom, other than that mine was in the shop class so we had to sit on uncomfortable stools at square woodblock tables, and that Mr. Boitano couldn't or refused to learn how to pronounce my name correctly. (He called me Ms. Roper.)

I also remember that we had to read during homeroom. I can't remember if there was a list of books we had to choose from or if my dad recommended it, but for some reason I decided to read The Hobbit.

Big mistake.

It was terrible! It was long and detailed to oblivion and I just could not get into it. By the end I couldn't care less what happened to Mr. Bilbo Baggins and that stupid ring. I swore to never read the rest of the series, even though both of my parents promised that they were much better. No. It was a matter of principle. No more Mr. Tolkien for me!

Fast forward ten or so years. The first of The Lord of the Ring movies came out. Everyone was going crazy over it. I was talked into seeing it. (I think my parents offered to pay for the tickets.)

Loved. It.

I loved all of them! What great movies! What great stories! And inbetween each movie my parents would tell me that I really should read the books; they were even better. But I held out - I didn't want the silly books to ruin the surprise of the movies!

Fast forward to now. Last week, actually. I had read all of the books I had from the library. I've read all of the books around my house. And then I remembered the trilogy copy of The Lord of the Rings I inherited (or perhaps stole) from my dad. I was doubtful. I was hesitant. I was willing to read at least the first chapter.

I was hooked.

I'm now on the second book and can't seem to stop. With this and the nausea (yep, it's still around), not much is getting done.

But that's okay. Because I have a lot of lost time and pages to make up for.