Mine, that is.
Menopause and midlife crisis — it’s enough to make me want to stay in bed until it’s all over. Except I’m either too cold, or too hot, to stay put: bed is just not the refuge it used to be. The most destructive thing about my midlife crisis is the looking back — I become mired in pasts that never were, much like when I tried to hang on to friendships long gone (high school GF), or when I tried to redress friendships long wrecked (college GF).
In the middle of the night, I woke DH up to tell him that my books were like the friendships that no longer were. I have books that were, books that are, books that may be. Some books are emphatically closed and never will be again (F. Scott Fitzgerald springs to mind) — it’s time to give them up. I kept these books because I was essentially “decorating” with them — although in my defense, I really did come by them honestly and not “by the yard,” and I never arranged by color or shape or size. Nevertheless, they had, over the years, become a statement of not my current learning or interests, but rather of my past intellectual endeavors.
Today I began listing some of my unloved books on Amazon; I have sold four of them so far. Perhaps someone out there will discover an enduring interest in one of the subjects and the books will find a comfortable space to be again.