Trust me, I was way cooler than I sound

This past Friday at midnight, I was in bed, asleep. I think. I may have still been awake, but I kind of doubt it. What I am sure of, though, is that I wasn't at either the Borders or the Barnes and Noble on State Street in downtown Santa Barbara.

The reasons for my lack of participation in what turned out to be a nationwide event, the scale of which easily approached the level of any given New Years eve, are myriad. The simplest explanation is that I had already ordered my copy and was guaranteed delivery on the release date. I ordered it months ago, before my latest whirlwind adventure to California could even be glimpsed on the horizon, and despite the fact that I'm now over two thousand miles away from the package, it would just be silly to buy another copy, right?

My second reason for missing this momentous event will no doubt make you re-read the previous paragraph with a bit of puzzlement. That is, I've kind of stopped reading the Harry Potter books. Not that I don't love them just as much as I always have, I've just started listening to them instead. The audiobooks are read by a guy named Jim Dale, and he really does an impressive job. His flawless character voices coupled with J.K. Rowling's simple, compelling prose is nothing short of magical in its ability to make me forget that I'm only about halfway through my time on the elliptical trainer at the gym (trust me, that's a feat of merlinian proportions).

Of course, now you're wondering why I spent the twenty bucks on a book I wasn't planning on reading. Sadly, I have no answer, beyond this: I'm a completist. I have the other books, all lined up nice and pretty on my shelf, and if I had let the fact that I had no intention of reading it keep me from buying the last book, the set never would have looked right.

I know. Just leave it alone.

Both of those points, if a little at odds with each other, are valid and understandable excuses for me to have ditched the witching hour festivities. Sadly, I fear that they are not, in fact, the whole truth.

The reality if the situation is this: I'm dead inside.

Okay, okay, maybe I'm just approaching dead. Some people call it getting older, others try to dress it up in euphemism by describing it as "growing up." It all boils down to the same thing, though.

I was in the office on Sunday afternoon, and some of my new coworkers were discussing a friend of theirs that they had run into at the coffee shop down the street (called the Daily Grind, really good coffee). Apparently, this person had finished reading the Deathly Hollows on Saturday afternoon, less than 24 hours after they had stood in line for God knows how long, waiting to buy it. My coworkers were amazed by it, they wondered how he could have possibly enjoyed it.

I wondered when I stopped being that guy.

There's nothing in this world I love more than reading. It wasn't all that long ago that I would stay up reading all night without even realizing it. It didn't even have to be a particularly good book. I have rarely ever called in sick to work. I don't think I've ever called in hung over. But on more than one occasion I have called in tired, because I had accidentally caught the sunrise at the tail end of a book binge.

Somewhere along the way, though, I went and found responsibility, as I suppose we all must. And there are worse things, I know.

Still, I kinda want to go out and buy the stupid book right this second, just to prove I still have it.

Aw hell, am I the only one who's hearing Bruce Springsteen singing Glory Days right now?*

*We won't talk about how sad it is that my "glory days" were comprised of all night reading sessions. Tell you what, just re-read the whole post and substitute "sex" anywhere you see "book". Actually, you better replace "Harry Potter" with "cheerleader" or something, too. Otherwise, it might be kind of creepy.