So I'm reading Infinite Jest, a fiction book which Spin called, "An acidic, free-styling, 1,088-page encyclopedia of hurt." Great. This book was all the rage when I was in college, it was the book to read, and so I didn't read it, which is the point of this post. But first, a little anecdote about the book:

Adding to its bulk is the fact that you have to carry a dictionary around with you, just to read it. This book is waaay over my head, and if anybody tells you it's not over theirs, then they're either a) not even wise enough to know what they don't know, or b) a self-stroking snot, whose recommendations for literature you probably wouldn't want to follow anyway, since it's obviously stuff read by conceited, high-falootin' jerks like them. So I'm lugging this tome around, and Cork Mick says to me, "How many hours of your life are you going to waste reading that book?" "You're absolutely right!" I said, "Temptation Island 2 is on! There's TV I could be watching in that time!"

I guess it's only funny if you, like, think books are worth reading.

So I'm reading this book, and I disagree with the author over a number of points, but he's smarter than me, and when I disagree with people who are smarter than me I take it as a sign I should pay attention to what they have to say. This is how I was able to read The Fountainhead despite the fact that Rand's philosophies make me physically sick, in that like the Bible if life must be lived as proscribed in the book then it is simply not worth living and even the suggestion of such a world is horrifying to me with the resulting physical consequences.

So I didn't read the book in college, and here's why: I have an overwhelming distrust of anything that people are doing just because people are doing. It's like I have this stubborn streak in me that refuses to participate. Sometimes it's pure angst, like the time that everybody wanted me to come sit in the grass and hang out but I didn't because everybody else was. When that happens, I can see that this is a flaw of mine. But sometimes it serves me well, like when everybody was getting tattoos of the Tasmanian Devil. Now it looks like my distrust is merely cautious prudence.

So all of my irony-dripping and so-very-po-mo colleagues were all about the book, and I flat-out refused to read it out of stubborness. I only picked it up now because Singular Girl bought it at a used bookstore and I voraciously consume any written text that I haven't read whenever its placed in daily proximity to me- if you want me to read a book, just casually toss it on the coffeetable, I won't be able to resist very long. Lo, I like it! It's not rearranging my life, since most books or music with that effect usually have some hook in them that causes me to override my no-because-everyone-else-is response, but I'm enjoying it. I don't consider it a waste of my train time, as Cork Mick does (who knows what more valuable tasks she accomplishes on the train and on the pot?), and I can't help wonder what else I've missed out on because I dismissed it as too trendy, versus what time or money I've saved by not being thrilled about the things that my peers tell me I simply cannot do without. What do you think? Am I an angsty snob for turning up my nose at anything that's too mainstream, or am I wisely saved from a flock mentality?