My husband has an extremely well-appointed book collection. He has a great number of sports biographies, war memoirs and the entire Jon Krakauer library. He as an enviable fiction collection featuring the newest and latest, as well as the timeless classics, by authors like King, Crichton and Harris.
He has read approximately 10% of these books.
Once in a while he’ll get the notion to pick up a book and read it bit by bit in the 20 minutes before bed. And once in a great while, he’ll finish that book. But in general, he’s not much for reading. That’s right, my very own husband (J), the love of my life, does not share my love for the written word. J is witty, intelligent and well-spoken. He has so many interests and loves to deepen his knowledge about them. But when I find a book I just know he would love, he is just usually not interested.
…or he starts it, and 8 months later his bedside table has a permanently lesser-worn area the exact size of Stephen Kings’ “Under the Dome”.
Right now, J is reading a copy of the Chris Hadfield biography that I picked up last weekend, and I sit beside him in bed, not making a sound for fear of startling him into putting down his book and going to back perusing the Chive.
At the same time, his wife has a lovely collection of sports apparel (hats, flags and t-shirts), yet still routinely calls breaks between all sports gameplay “halftime”.
So I guess that’s marriage for you. J will periodically tackle a book and patiently explain (again) the concept of icing to his wife. And I will periodically yell out some sports phrases (” PUT THE BISCUIT IN THE BASKET”), and try not to grin at him like a vindicated stalker when he reads.