I’ve started reading my almost-five-year old son The Hobbit. A book I’ve read so many times I thought I owned it. I didn’t. Needing a copy I ordered the hardcover off Amazon after carefully researching the exact hardcover version I wanted. That’s not even really the geeky part. The really geeky part is the deep, fundamental, upset-edness I’m suffering with knowing Amazon shipped me the 70th anniversary edition, the one not really fit to be a special edition, with the bad illustration, re-used introduction, and the paperback style first chapter of “Fellowship” at the end. Returning it isn’t an option. That would be admitting I have a problem. So I suffer. In a weird circular way, knowing that my suffering over being geeky is, in itself, incredibly geeky.
Plus, my son is convinced that I’m descended from hobbits. It’s not the general bookish-ness or the homebody-ness. It’s the curly hair and my slightly hairy feet. Slightly. Really.
Slightly.