Harry Potter And My Disappearing Weekend
Long after the initial craze gripped us muggles like a spell cast by Lord You-Know-Who I gave in and picked up a copy of the first Harry Potter book. To let you know how behind the times I was, I didn't pick up the first book until the first three were out in paperback. I had all my friends telling me I needed to read these books but mostly the requests came from my friends' children who wanted an adult to discuss the book with and knowing that I have the attention span and mentality of a fourth grader, I was the perfect candidate. I had purchased the first one at an airport on one of my many business trips and upon reading the first one I was hooked. I read the first three than began playing the waiting game with everyone else for the future installments. Well, the last one was delivered to me last week and as I started reading it, I was more than capable of putting it down. That is until this weekend when it was me, Harry Potter and an entire bag of double stuffed mint Oreos (God help me). Harry Potter and my disappearing weekend - Don't Get Me Started!
Let me say that I had no intention of getting so wrapped up into these books when I started reading them but I just couldn't help myself. The sad part of course is that the friend whose daughter started me on these books has now moved onto college and left me with no one to discuss the intricacies of Hogwarts with at all. She just laughs at me when I bring it up and in fact when she got the information on her roommate at college for her freshman year, she was disgusted that the girl had listed Harry Potter books as something she was "in to" and she told me that she was all ready hating having to meet her, imagining the girl wanting to start throwing "Potter Parties" in her dorm room - yuck - as if. This was the same girl that was wearing the Potter glasses and fancying herself Hermione just a few years earlier. But alas, much like Peter Pan (because you know of course that I am him) my Wendy grew up, leaving me alone with the lost boys (an enviable position for most gays except for this one who has been with the same man for what will be nineteen years this August).
Now the first few Potter books were easy reads and while I just hated that second book, I managed through it. Then the tomes started coming, the 600 or 700 or 8,000 page books that I could barely hold in my hands let alone carry on a plane. I did curse ol' JK for making those books so huge (and being an old theatre director at heart I did see some places she could have cut as to have made the pace better) but alas, it didn't matter because I was hooked. I've always known that I have one of those personalities that once I start something I have to finish it, period (some might call it addictive, if you want to get ugly about it). But this also goes for anything like series of books or on television, if I'm watching or reading it, I'm going to see and/or read all of them. Another reason the Gods were smiling on me and didn't make me Christian for I fear that I would be one of those people who need to have the entire Christmas porcelain village complete with mini flocked trees and tiny shoppers "rushing home with their treasures." To date, I have managed to not collect anything in a porcelain variety but my mother is the queen of crap that has a certificate of authenticity. It's supposedly going to make us a fortune one day, these artifacts signed by the artist but I have a feeling a million years from now when my parents pass I'll be standing in a driveway trying to get someone to take the statues of rabbis with their certificates of authenticity off my hands for quarters on the dollar just to get rid of them at the estate/garage sale.
I had so many hopes for this past weekend, so much that I wanted to do but it began on Friday afternoon when I started really reading the latest Harry Potter. I had managed to put it down and pick it back up just fine for the first two hundred pages but then as I entered into the 300s look out. I couldn't put it down. Like some strange cursed object it would not leave my hand. (Thank God one of my hands was free to give me sustenance - well if you can call it that - in a matter of three days I would eat an entire large bag of double stuffed mint Oreo cookies) There I was (having not showered or coifed, or even cared unfortunately for my mate) flipping pages, eating another Oreo, wiping the crumbs off of the page before going to the next page and then the whole process started all over again. The book went with me to the bathroom, to the sofa, to the bed and to the floor (as I tried desperately to find a position that was comfortable with this book the size of a Buick). As I laid on the floor, my cat would burrow his face in pages I had all ready read, then he would lay his head on the page I was reading, then in my ignoring him, he'd lay his back lengthwise against the top of the book in such a manner that I was dodging his tail like one of those windmills you encounter on a miniature golf course. He wouldn't give up and neither would I.
Finally at 5:30pm last night (after cancelling Sunday dinner with my parents) I finished the book. Sure I was sweaty and looked like hell but it was over. I mean, really over. No longer would I have to wonder what happened to these characters, no longer would I have to wait for the next installment like a Star Wars geek. No, it was over and I was glad. I don't know if I was glad because I had the knowledge of what had happened to the characters or if the anal retentive side of me was just delighted to be able to say that yet another series had been read, completed and was now finished. There was definitely a sense of accomplishment for the reading and yet what was that hideous remorse I was feeling? The Oreos. As I stuffed the empty bag deeper into the garbage and felt a little sick to my stomach, I grabbed my head. Was it the Potter scar burning on my forehead or just something else? Confirmed by the scale at the gym this morning - it was something else - the cookie hangover of a lifetime gave me something even more lasting this weekend - three pounds to work off. Curse you Voldemort, Harry Potter and even all the flipping house elves for the three pounds and even more damaging, a weekend I don't even recall - a lost weekend. Harry Potter and my disappearing weekend - Don't Get Me Started!
Read more Scott @ www.somelikeitscott.com