On Not Buying A Book

So this weekend a rather small moment of progress was made, that passed through my consciousness at a frequency too low to register but is actually indicative that maybe something deeper is taking root.

I did not go out and buy a book.

It is a pretty innocuous item that happens around here rather frequently:  I like to buy books.  I like to read books too, but my instinct - not just when I am bored, but when I am frustrated as well - is to go and buy a book. I come to figure out that this is some sort of coping mechanism - a much lighter degree of shopping as a recreational activity.

I sat there and thought about it.  I certainly have the cash and as I shop at used book stores.  And there are certainly books I can find to read (Usually.  Thanks to The Plague, that is a bit hard to come by these days - not enough people selling books due to closed stores and limited hours).  And it is an easy drive.

But I kept coming back to the question "Why"?

Why was it this need - this seemingly burning, intense need - was there? Was it a real need?  Or was it a want? And if a want, why did it need to be exercised.

I thought.  And I thought.  And I ended up staying home, reading a book or two I already had.  Saved the fuel.  Saved the money.  Still was entertained.

It is a minor - very minor - victory on the road to learning to come terms with exercising every little whim and desire that comes up.  From such small mustard seeds, trees grow.

Now I have to fight the urge to reward myself with a book...