It’s not every day that I take on an extra task that requires time, attention, patience and skills. Much like the large jungle bound sloth I like to spend extra free hours lying very still and not expending any energy, mental or physical.
BUT, I do love a dare. So it was with morbid curiosity that I accepted a 30 day challenge.
Sadly, I never stood a chance.
I was standing in a circle of women, all of us clucking like the ministers gossipy wife about this or that when one of my inner circle turned to the other and said “I LOVED it!” They all tittered approvingly and started trading opinions on book vs. movie and why the scenes were so romantic and gripping.
“You are NOT fucking talking about that stupid Twilight thing are you?” I said astonished.
“Yes we are!” they all laughed musically like they were part of a club that only the very enlightened could join.
“Why you read and watch that shit is beyond me” I griped.
Conspiratorially with half lowered lids they all turned on me and gave me a long list of reasons WHY these books and movies were so compelling and addictive.
“How about a wager“, chided the most successful of the group “if you take 30 days to read all the books and then see the movies, I guarantee you will get sucked in. It’s like crack, and soon you’ll be the crack whore”
“You’re on” I challenged with the ferocity of a thousand sleeping turtles.
“You just wait” deadpanned one “you’ll be a fucking goner”
And so it began.
After the massive success of these books and movies I think I might remain the only village idiot unaware of the long reaching influence and sway this series has had on popular culture.
You just wait, they laughed.
These were successful, busy, happy women with children. They ran networks, put criminals behind bars and gave lethal roundhouse kicks to the head when it was warranted.
The idea of these gooey, romantic, bodice ripping ,vampire time wasters getting a grip on and holding me hostage was preposterous. I would be completely immune to the charms of these fictional people.
Even had a pep talk ready for myself that sounded like this:
Listen here, slightly more menacing Cedric Diggory and wheezy asthmatic girl without an inhaler from Panic Room, you’ll need more than the breathy denials of your primordial urge to rip each others clothes off to destroy me. I actually READ Ulysses and didn’t use it as a door stop, like my roommate did and I’ve even finished a few Martin Amis novels without experiencing the gaping void of inadequacy that usually overtakes his readers afterward. I’m going to STAND, FIGHT, WIN!!
I was about to throw myself on the funeral pyre of classic literature that been passed up in favor of this crap ,and single-handedly resurrect the masses long faded love of the oldies.
One month my ass.
I ripped through the entire four book series in three days flat stopping only to throw old half gnawed chicken bones at a group of hungry children who somewhere in the haze I remembered to be mine. I’m on NO sleep. The kids are fraying my nerves as I toss leftovers and ramen at them screaming that they need to grow up sometime and feed themselves.
When is this guy going to bang the shit out of her? How many different ways are there to describe ragged breaths of restrained lust? (Hint, it’s endless) I even got up and fanned myself when he finally got the chutzpah to do the deed on their honeymoon.
“Stop interrupting my reading” I would hiss like a strung out addict jonesing for my next quiet free ten minutes to devour the story.
That Stephanie Meyers bitch sure knows what she’s doing.
All I know is that my inner 16-year-old girl lept straight out of my chest and compelled me to read like a rabid librarian at a book burning convention. The background noise of a billion women’s panties hitting the floor with a wet sickening thud was my soundtrack. Reading this stuff is like emerging from the bowels of the hormone soaked visceral years of your teens and early 20’s when every thing felt so deep, real and life altering and realizing you’ve been away for too long.
You could probably argue that we crusty ancient harpies don’t have enough raw passion in our lives so we locked onto this fantasy. You could also say that the poor fellow who plays Edward in the movie must want to wipe himself down with a disinfectant towel when he thinks of the four million different ways that billions of people have imagined defiling him in one hour. I’d suggest a hot bleach shower to wipe his mind.
So, long story short. I lost. HARD.
(cue the giggles and thunderous applause)
A week of my life virtually disappeared while I stole every free moment available to retreat to the ivory tower and gobble up more plot. I didn’t eat OR sleep more than two hours a night and I wondered about fictional characters while driving carpool.
Stephanie Meyer, I don’t know what kind of black magic you are weaving over there but I am the proof that it’s working like a charm since I have actually contemplated the logistics of sexual relations with the undead and admitted to my contemporaries that I spent chunks of precious time huddled over my kindle begging for more.
Now if I could only get a grip on the pavlovian response I’m having every time I hear Robert Pattinsons voice on Entertainment Tonight.