I don’t think there is a such a thing as “too much reading” or “too much imagination.” I generally believe anyone who thinks either of those is lacking in whatever it is that allows a person to experience joy. I feel sorry for them.
However, today I had an experience that made me rethink my stance on “too much.”
On the way home I remembered one thing I had forgotten to pick up in the sixteen previous stops, so I swung into the crowded parking lot of the local big box, blue signed, behemoth variety store. I have entered this store hundreds, quite possibly even thousands, of times. Each and every time I walk up and two steps from the entrance the electric eye spies me and the doors whoosh open.
Not today. Today I walked right up to the doors and stopped. They eye didn’t spy me and the doors didn’t whoosh. In the split second that it took for technology to catch up and open the door I thought what any reasonable person would think in the same situation.
“Oh, my God. I wonder if I’m dead and don’t know it.”
What? That isn’t what you think when the automatic door fails to open? In my defense, these particular doors are as familiar as my own front entrance and have never fail to open — which is more than I can say for my own front entrance.
It whooshed. I entered. I went through a manned check-out and spoke to the attendant, just to be sure.
Too much? Just enough.