Librarians spend their days speaking in hushed voices. They have a masters degree in library science from a reputable university and fondly reminisce about the good ole' days before the bad evil Internet ruined the newspaper industry and the constant chirp of cell phones made their ears ring. Memories of the Dewy Decimal System trigger an almost uncontrollable emotional outburst. Librarians do not believe fantasy novels or books about vampires constitute literature, preferring to bestow praise on books written in the that no one in their right mind would read if given a choice (see: Heart of Darkness.) Jane Austin makes them weep.
Librarians are thoughtful and articulate, but not necessarily patient. They have little tolerance for disorder, children that walk too quickly or speak too loudly or bring snacks into the facility, and people who return books late or neglect to rewind their VCR tapes. While they might complain about their role as enforcer, they secretly relish the opportunity to admonish those college students making out in the study room or the senior citizens who rip recipes out of magazines.
Librarians bring their lunch from home in a brown paper bag and drink instant coffee during their break. They drive older-model Volvos and listen to NPR. They own a minimum of two cats, both of whom are named after children's book characters (Charlotte, Huck) or punctuation (Italics.) Librarians frequently collect teacups made from fine English china and spend their evening conquering the New York Times crossword puzzle (in ink) or knitting. Favorite television programs include Jeopardy and anything on CBS.
Librarians wear straight wool plaid pencil skirts that fall unflatteringly to mid-calf, boxy sweater sets from Talbots or Ann Taylor, and sensible flat leather shoes that crick as they sashay between the stacks. Accessories are limited to a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses on a thin gold chain, or a pencil stuck behind the ear. Simple faux pearl studs complete the look. Librarians smell like dust and dried leather and that musty antique fragrance of old books and decay and Grandma's basement.
I am not a librarian.
However, I chose to dress like one today.
|Gap cardigan; thrifted Ann Klein toile blouse; Gap stretch white tee; thrifted Banana Republic denim skirt; Forever 21 belt; J Crew tights; Anthropologie patent leather oxfords.|
I felt very prim and proper in this getup. I felt ready to admonish a small child for throwing their book on the floor. If someone presented me a question about the location of books regarding the cultivation and care of the bonsai tree, I'd be equipped to provide the answer. Or, at the least, look like I could.