The way that people de-stress fascinates me.

I’m a college grad with a BA in English and more than one or two neuroses. Some of the ways that I’ve attempted to decompress in past years were … less than advisable, let’s say. Plus, they didn’t work. What I’ve discovered really works for me is book shopping. This quickly became something of an obsession, and I now have stacks of unread books surrounding my bed. Still, my books calm me.

Originally this book-buying fettish sprung from a really intense desire to find a positive and uplifting way to deal with negative emotions. I would wander into the downtown book store, sip some jasmine tea from the shop across the way and let the smell of those books soothe me back to sanity. Running my fingers over the slick spines of the paperbacks and the stiff fabric of the pasteboard covers felt like salvation-it was wonderful.

But, like anything else, pretty soon it wasn’t enough just to browse the little shop and talk to the nice lady with the pretty cardigans that stood behind the counter every afternoon. Soon, I needed to take one of these books home with me. I needed the assurance that I could have a piece of the of bookstore, the smell of the new pages, the unread words, with me when I drove home. So I did. I found some of my favorite books that way, tracing my index finger down a shelf until it landed on a friendly sounding title.

Before long, I wanted to take every appealing looking book with me. It hurt my feelings to have to leave so many good books–so much good smelling paper and so many nice looking covers behind. I bought two books once, just to see if that felt better. Walking out of the store with two books tucked under my arm was reminiscent of the feeling I got the first time I walked into the book store. It was as if I had been walking around with a metal rod in my spine and someone had, very quietly, drawn it out for me. My whole body relaxed.

Not long after, two books wasn’t enough. I walked to the cash register one time with an arm load of books only to discover that I would have to spend $214.17 to keep them all. Reluctantly I fished one or two books out of the pile and apologized for having made a mess of the counter. When I got home that afternoon and told my roommates about my plight–not enough money for the books I needed–Red asked, “Why don’t you try the library?”

If you’re a book person, I hope you understand. I love the library. I love that they provide anyone who wants it with the opportunity to read (or should–my city won’t lend books to people without two proofs of residence, which I think is a little shady, but whatever). However, there is something so comforting and reassuring to me about owning a book. I can pencil my thoughts in the margins and dog ear the pages mercilessly and toss them across the room when I feel betrayed by the author. Plus they are mine. I don’t have to give them back if I love them. They stay on my shelf for me. They’re like friends.

I’ve calmed down a little in the last year or so. Now, unless I’m seeking something particular, I go to the used book/media store and browse there. My family was visiting me a couple of weeks ago, so I had to drive there as soon as we parted ways. I walked away with five books (and a Mountain Goats CD which I bought on recommendation and have decided that I don’t like very much) but I paid less than $20 for the lot. The way I see it, if I don’t do it too often, my book buying habit is a lot cheaper and healthier than a lot of things that I could be doing. I’m rationalizing a bit here, but I’ve decided to be okay with that.

Days later, over bottles of Superfood, I talked to some gal-pals about my book buying obsession. We decided that everybody has a de-stressing obsession. Some are a little bit more common: chocolate, etc.; others are a little off the wall — like having to change your toe-nail polish every night, while others are just downright bizarre. I won’t mention the weirdest example I heard (to protect the innocent) but you know who you are.

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