I like to say that I don’t have any guilty pleasures. From time to time I’ll even correct someone, asking why they should feel guilty about enjoying the things they love. It goes something like this:
Friend: You know, watching that show Dating Naked is one of my guilty pleasures.
Me: You mean, one of your pleasures. Why feel guilty about something you love? Plus, that is a great show. (I mean, it really is great, isn’t it? You can reach out and touch the awkwardness. And who knew so many 25-year-old virgins watched VH-1?)
But the thing is, with all of the above-quoted bravado, I really do feel a bit sheepish about admitting some of my favorite things. I keep them to myself and really only talk about the “cool” things I do. Which may be why this blog is sparse of late. . . Anyway, when I do reveal some of my less cool activities, I protest the “guilty” label but find myself blushing a bit or doing that awkward smiling thing where you really aren’t happy but your face is stuck in smile-mode and then suddenly you realize that your face is SO TIRED OF SMILING that it feels as if your eye-balls might pop out of their sockets. So probably I still feel guilty about it. However, I’m faking it until I actually achieve my desired level of enlightenment. Like a pro.
This week, I’m right in the midst of one of my NOT GUILTY pleasures: reading Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander.
I know, I know, it’s 850 pages of ridiculous time-traveling historical fiction that is mostly a romance novel. And yes, it is true, there aren’t any dragons so it’s nowhere near as good as Game of Thrones. [I did spy a 18th-century version of the Loch Ness monster in there, but it wasn’t scary, so I accept this criticism.] But sometimes, when you spend so many hours walking the path of giant spreadsheets and the technical application of specialized jargon written by congressional staffers and interpreted by regulation and applied and defined by administrative boards, it’s nice to have a little magic in the evening. Even if it is completely ridiculous and even if the romance parts stopped being interesting a few hundred pages ago.
And so, I just wanted to tell you: I’ve worked two eight-hour shifts and mopped the kitchen and cooked dinner for my husband several times but also, I’ve had the first Outlander book in my possession since about 6 p.m. on Sunday and I’m already 567 pages in. It feels good to tell the truth.
So, do you believe in guilty pleasures? And have you read the Outlander books? Am I completely insane?