I love notebooks. Specifically, I love spiral bounds for notes, classes, and diaries. But I can't resist setting up a brand new 3-ring binder for a special purpose. (Oh, the 3-rings have to be white with a clear part you can slip in a spine label and a front cover.)
I just pulled out an old one to use for a new project. It's the perfect portable one: 150 sheets, 9.5 x 6 in, 3 sections, purple cover. Inside the front cover is my name and the date '8Mar1993'. No idea why I went so Euro with the date. A section of the notebook was once used for GRE prep--vocabulary words such as opprobrium (girls night anyone?), several pages of algebra and trig. In another section I have notes on why I wanted/want to pursue a PhD and notes from a lecture I attended by Peter Buerhaus, genius of nursing systems thinking. The last section contains notes on starting this blog and my secret plan for helping all spouses of residents.
Notebooks could be the reason I loved my job in clinical trials. Every study had at least one notebook as a reference manual. And then each patient enrolled had their own notebook. My office was shelves and shelves of binders, all with slip-in spine and cover pockets.
In school, every class had to have it's own spiral bound, preferably in a color that matched the textbook. Or, a color that made you happier than the class did--a nice bright green for statistics for instance.
Is my notebook obsession a reflection of my need for containment and control? The last fragment of Type A remaining since motherhood so swiftly kicked my ass? A grasp at youth?
Just know that if you visit me in the old age home, bring me a cute notebook. Oh, and a mechanical pencil, medium point lead...but that's a whole different essay...
