I’m Glad I Lost My Kindle

As I alluded to in Sunday’s essay, summer is a time when I theoretically have so much more time on my hands to read books. I assume this is the case until I remember that I don’t actually have more time on my hands because I am not, in fact, a child on summer break from school, but instead still an adult working around the clock and slotting in moments of reading for pleasure where she can. Summer reading challenges at my local library growing up have forever warped my perception of the relationship between sunshine and leisurely reading, much like the non-causal relationship between ice cream consumption and shark attacks in July.

Still, something about summer renders us all children, coloring in boxes on our Candy Land-themed summer reading worksheets, collecting finished books like precious gemstones or McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. Perhaps it’s also the amount of time spent lying around beaches and parks, restless with our screens. Whatever the cause, in the summer, I really want to read. But every summer, I find myself befuddled by the illusion of choice, starting books that I never finish, chasing that elusive, perfect summer read like swiping through matches on a dating app. Somehow, no book, nothing really, is ever good enough for me in the summer.