I have a confession: books are my weakness.

Strong bindings, first editions, and leather bound boards make me giddy; original illustrations, gilt edges, and fanciful end papers make me swoon. A bad day? No problem, so long as a bookstore is nearby.

Given the choice between a fabulous set of heels and a beautifully bound book, I’d be hard pressed to make a decision. There are many a book in my library that should have been Salmon fillets, or maybe a new skirt.

It’s not my fault, mind you. Much of the blame rests with my parents. My mom long encouraged imagination and books often found their way to me via gifts; and my dad . . . . well, my dad simply led by example. He’ll read anything and everything. I still remember him reading the tables at Wendy’s (they were designed in vintage newspapers). And don’t expect much when he’s reading. If you happen to choke on a chicken bone while my dad has his nose in a book, good luck. It’s not that he wouldn’t want to help; he’ll just be unaware of any pandemonium outside the covers of that book.

Despite my upbringing, however, I try to blend in . . . I try to appear normal. When speaking, I try to talk about the world, at large; when at a gathering where I’d much rather be reading, I rarely let on.

Still, every once in awhile something comes along that gives it all away. Something like tissues, nestled in a book designed box . . .

One glance, that’s all it takes, and I cave like Superman lounging on a settee of Kryptonite. My eyes grow wide and try as I might I just can’t stifle that squeal.

It’s over. I’m done.

And there it is, for the whole word to see: my nerd card.

Of course, lucky for me, I’m usually much too happy to care. So there’s that . . .