Here’s the paradox about reading in bed:
You want to read books that are riveting, because life is too short for boring books, but riveting books have a way of keeping you up until the wee hours. That’s what’s been happening to me lately. I’ve been on a reading rampage. Mainly I’ve been stuck on memoirs by women around my age. This is all part of me gearing up to eventually write something MEANINGFUL and maybe do something with my life.
So I recently read Yoga Bitch by Suzanne Morrison in less than 48 hours, and then I wrote a short, spazzy review of it for Lexi Yoga. I couldn’t help but focus in on one small part of the book in my review: (SPOILER ALERT)…
…the part where she DRINKS HER OWN URINE. Yeah, that happens.
The thing about Suzanne is that she seems an awfully lot like me. She’s into yoga, but not that into it. She can roll her eyes with the best of them. She lives in Seattle (where my heart lives). She’s been known to smoke a cigarette. She kind of doesn’t give a fuck. I adore her — at least based on this one memoir. Oh, she’s also a good writer, surprisingly not a prerequisite for writing a memoir, it turns out!* Good to know.
The fact that Suzanne seems an awful lot like me is what tripped me up, because if two months in Bali could convince her to drink her own pee, what would happen to me? Would I do that too? Given the right circumstances? I’m going to Thailand in a few weeks, so these are important questions.
* Being not a brilliant writer does not mean that you won’t get your book published, and it also doesn’t mean that I won’t stay up until past 2 in the morning reading your book, as I recently did with another memoir: Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies. I’m pretty sure that one of you guys recommended this to me. 
This book is not a Shakespearean masterpiece, but I’ll tell you what, it kept my attention but good. It’s about a woman who thought she was in the perfect marriage and family — until her perfect husband left her and their perfect kids for another woman. Shocking? Nope. Happens every day.
I got into this one because I related to how much of a terrible mystery and a speeding train wreck most relationships are. I also, unfortunately, related quite a bit to the childish way that Ms. Gillies acted during parts of her relationship. Ugh. Thanks, mirror.
I’m ready for another book — preferably a memoir about a late-bloomer 40-year-old woman who suddenly manifests all her hopes and dreams (just yoking). Any suggestions?
Oh, but speaking of late bloomers, this is a great Malcolm Gladwell article that you will probably enjoy:
