And it's hard to say if they're happy, but they don't seem much to mind

Back over the summer, I was working on a project that required me and my coworkers to write articles about medical conditions and diseases. Of the various and sundry guidelines that dictated how these articles were to be written, one prominent instruction was that we were never supposed to use a disease name as a noun-substitute for a person. I.e., instead of "a diabetic," we wrote "person with diabetes." Instead of "an epileptic," "man with epilepsy."

The reason for this is obvious enough: no one wants their entire identity to be eclipsed by the incidental fact that they have a medical condition. If we're going to be defined by something, most of us would prefer it not to be based on the random, mutinous action of our body cells, but a personal quality of our choosing.

I, personally, tend to think of myself as a Book Reader. It's been the quality of my choosing for about as long as I can remember having the ability to choose. While I don't delude myself thinking that an affinity for reading is a unique trait (because, honestly, hardly anyone ever admits to not being a reader, lest they come across as an extra-strength nincompoop), defining myself in terms of my literacy helps me to explain and/or justify other aspects of my personality, too. Like the fact that I use unnecessarily syllablicious vocabulary in everyday conversation. Or the fact that I feel entitled (and not stupid) when making up words like syllablicious. Or the fact that friends who I haven't heard from in six months are prone to texting me out of the blue asking about grammar. Or the fact that, stingy and risk-averse though I am, I paid out the ear to apply to a series of literature grad programs with <6% acceptance rates.

If I defined myself as, say, a Democrat or a Vegetarian, these other particular traits wouldn't be immediately explicable. But I'm a Book Reader, so my world makes sense.

Yesterday, I finished up the novel Shadow of the Wind, which my sister gave me for Christmas. While I was basking in that familiar, weird, half-disappointed wave of emotion that happens the minutes after you finish a long, satisfying novel, I suddenly realized that I hadn't actually sat down and read a book like that in months. Tracing back in time, I was able to identify that my reading habits have been sinking like the Titanic, pretty much, since I left Bloomington, to the point where I've hardly been reading at all.

Which is weird, 'cause I'm a Book Reader.

I've always taken Being a Book Reader for granted. Prior to this year, I'd never been lacking in books or even in time, given that when you're an English student a certain percentage of your day is obliged to be spent nose-first in a book. It never once occurred to me that, in the future, I would need to make time for books and reading, that if I wanted to continue to be who I am and maintain my syllablicious sensibilities outside the nurturing confines of a university, I'd have to actively and forcibly prevent myself from being sucked in to a world where it's perfectly acceptable to spend the 4 hours between work and sleep watching TV.

But I'm back. And ready to defend my title.