MY ACTUAL BOOK is in Georgia now. It's in some warehouse, mere miles from where I sit, waiting to be delivered into my own personal hands. Tomorrow. The UPS guy will smirk at me as he gives it over, most likely because I'll have met him in the front yard (like last time) rather than be patient enough for him to ring the doorbell. My husband will call me "dork" all weekend--and then read THE BOOK the instant I'm finished with it, I might add. Ryan will say, "Excuse me, Mommy and the Harry Potter book, I'd like to talk to you, please" all weekend. Fortunately, the baby won't notice or care. Probably.
Oh the delicious thrill of anticipation! I almost don't want to get THE BOOK. I certainly don't want to open the package and touch THE BOOK, run my fingers across the cover and pages. I most definitely don't want to read THE BOOK, and I'll tell you why.
Because it will begin so wonderfully! The first couple of chapters will tantalizingly delight. I'll take it slowly, savoring every word, pausing to fix each scene in my imagination.
Then, inevitably, the story will grip me so tightly, that it will be nearly impossible for me to come up for air. When forced to stop reading, I'll stare at my family and home with that feeling that THEY are fiction, and the world of Harry, reality. I'll wonder what I'm supposed to be doing, and then summon up the energy to nurse the baby or play with my son or talk to my husband. But I'll be waiting, waiting, waiting for the instant I can snatch THE BOOK up again and dive back into the pages.
About two-thirds of the way into the book, I'll realize "IT'S NEARLY OVER" and try try try to slow it down. I may even attempt to walk away from THE BOOK for an hour or two. But I'll just nearly suffocate, not knowing what's to come, and then THE BOOK will take me back and force me to read the words, not caring about ME. No, MY feelings don't matter to THE BOOK. It just wants to make me read it. And I'll have to read it, knowing, knowing with absolute dreadful certainty that IT WILL END, and I'll be left empty and sad and unwilling to admit how very long two or three years can be, waiting for THE FINAL BOOK.
The excitement of "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya', tomorrow" will turn back into the plodding of "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow/Creeps in this petty pace from day to day/To the last syllable of recorded time."
And then I must face the knowledge that there's only one book left to anticipate!!!!!!
So really, what's the point?
God, I can't wait!