Reading in bed is my comfort food. Being tucked in under my pink L.L. Bean down comforter with just my hands from the wrist out protruding—enough to hold up my book—is quite possibly the best activity in the world. It beats yoga. It beats mountain climbing and fishing and bungee jumping (this latter activity I have done in New Zealand, and will most definitely write about at a later date.)
It doesn’t really matter what I’m reading, as long as it’s good. As long as my eyeballs are so glued to the page that I don’t notice the slant of the light changing as hours progress. Sometimes I have those great Antarctic explorers on my mind, trudging through knee-deep snow and sliding carefully over the fragile lips of a crevasse. Other times I have grisly crimes decoded in blood and ink and I can’t turn the page fast enough. Either is perfect.
What makes this bed-reading especially wonderful today is the furious flurries outside of my window. There aren’t shadows to mark the sun’s trek towards the horizon, but just a soft gray and almost blue light. The world is suspended, and I am floating in a small Missouri town, searching for a killer among neighbors. Today I am a sleuth and a journalist. But still, my feet are warm.