In Which I Succomb to the Utmost Hypocrisy

con·fes·sion

Pronunciation: \kən-ˈfe-shəna statement of what is confessed: as a : a written or oral acknowledgment of guilt by a party accused of an offense

Keeping with the initial theme of this blog, I come to you today with a confession. It seems only right to share it here, with you.

I never meant for this to happen, really. I resisted, easily, for so long. I was the naysayer above all naysayers. I judged others, I rolled my eyes, I bore hatred in my heart. I promised myself (and the rest of the world) that I would never get caught up in such rubbish. And then, inexplicably, it dug it's complicated claws into me, pulling me in, and I now know I will never be the same.

And to this end, I will forever be an awful, awful hypocrite.

You see, my friends, only 2 nights ago, I finally succumbed to an inevitable fate:

Hi. My name is Steph. And I am unconditionally and irrevocably in love with the Twilight Saga.

I really do not know how it happened. I vaguely remember it's birth into the world several years ago, watching the clip of a talk show in which the author, Stephanie Meyer, was promoting her book. About vampires.

Vampires.

Does it get any more ridiculous than that?

I scoffed. And yet, the phenomenon caught on. Slowly, those around me (loved ones, for heavens sake), were caught up, tearing through the books with a sickening voracity. I couldn't understand it. My girl friends became like goo, melting and blubbering over a fictional character named Edward. What the what? I was embarrassed for them. And it made my anger grow.

It's about vampires, how good could it be?

Good enough to become a major motion picture, apparently. And then two motions pictures. And soon there will be more. The popularity that surrounded Twilight astounded me. And out of sheer rebellion, I began to boycott it. (Note: this has happened only one other time in my life. In second grade, a small boy band named New Kids on The Block became a plague and the bane of my existence. Every one of my grade school friends had the New Kids cassette tapes. Went to their concerts. Pledged their love and their firstborn children to NKOTB. Even then, I could not understand the obsession. So, although it meant I had to side with boys, I vowed to never love Jordan. Or Jonathan. Or Joey, Donnie or Danny f0r that matter. To this day, I stand by my word).

Not being able to understand my seemingly illogical loathing of Twilight, my friends (particularly Jen and Linzee. And I might throw Amanda in there as well) began to plead with me. They sent me articles. They verbally debated me. Just read it, they implored! You'll fall in love! You're life will never be the same! They had read every word of every book. They saw the movies. They dreamed of Edward. Jen even swore to me that if I read all four installments of the Twilight Saga, she would sign up for Facebook (I know. Jen is not on Facebook. I don't understand it. But that's another issue all together). Linzee even made me take the first book of the saga home with me.

Come to think of it, it was probably a conspiracy.

But I was not affected. I had every reason to stay away from this disease. You might be thinking that I had some moral aversion to the stories, that somehow the subject of vampires might be inappropriate. Surprisingly, this had nothing to do with my stance. I find nothing religiously or morally wrong with the topic (to which, I understand, some of you out there might find sacrilegious. We can talk about that another day). It's fiction. I did, though, have a problem with it being lame. And stupid. And sappy. And about high school kids. And vampires. And generally too hip.

As I shot back every defense I had, a small voice began whispering deep within me. Over time, weeks and months of time, it became louder. And when the book was finally forced into my possession, staring boldly at me from my desk, day after day, I could no longer ignore what was being told to me.

You are afraid.

What? I responded to the voice.

You are afraid, the voice shot back. You are afraid of relating to it. And loving it. And becoming so enraptured with it, that your life will never be the same.

I gasped. The voice was absolutely right. I was afraid. Afraid of falling in love with another story. So here I am to confess: I become far too involved with fictional stories.

Even as I type it, I fight with my hands to not delete the words. But I have to share this with you. Because I know there are people like me out there. People who have daringly creative imaginations and overly active emotions. As far back as I can remember, I loved reading. As a somewhat unpopular and nonathletic child, I spent much of my youth reading. Nancy Drew. Boxcar Children. The Babysitters Club. And as far back as I can remember, I struggled to separate the fictional world and reality. Was there a part of me that believed Dawn, Kristy, Maryanne and Claudia really existed? That if I traveled up to Connecticut, I could truly join the infamous Babysitters Club? Was it possible that I could, in fact, solve mysteries with Nancy Drew? Where did my mind and heart draw the line?

I fell into the same spell with Lord of the Rings. I did not pick up this tome until I was in college. Yet, even as a well-educated and rational adult, I tore through the pages with speed, not daring to believe that Frodo, after being separated from Samwise Gamgee, could be dead. I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, revelling in the romance between Aragorn and Arwen. I wanted to fight with a sword, to carry the burden of the ring. And when the time came to close the book for a short time (you know, to eat. Sleep. Pee), I had to fight to escape the fog that hindered my full exposure to reality.

It scared me.

Every Harry Potter book hemmed me in as well. I boycotted the hype of these books initially as well. Until one day, several years after the first was published, my sister came home having just finished the first book. She placed it in the bathroom for safe keeping (or was it safe reading?). One day, during a particularly long visit to the loo, I picked it up. I'll only read the first page, I promised myself. What else do I have to do in here anyway? 50 pages, and an unintentional half an hour later, I was hooked. I ripped through every book, finally catching up to the present publications. I became apart of the crowd who impatiently waited two or three years between each book release (although I did not fall in with the crowd who took it to the next level: those who dressed up and pretended to go to Hogwarts and made wands and stuff. I did draw the line somewhere. If you are one of those people, though: more power to you. I am in no place to judge). My heart almost broke as I read the final page of the series, conflicted. On one hand, I finally had the Harry Potter story in its entirety. But on the other, the dream was over. At the reading of the last word, Hogwarts vanished. Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermoine were gone. And the part of me that kept alive the ember of possibility that it all could exist, however ridiculous and unrealistic, died.

As the cover of Twilight taunted me, I weighed heavily if I could put myself through it all again. I'd successfully stayed away from books, unwilling to give my heart to another piece of fiction. Unwilling to allow a mere chunk of literature to tamper with my life and mess with my mind. And yet, there it sat. Begging me to read.

So, this past Tuesday, at approximately 11pm, I tentatively picked up the book. Hubby was ready to go to sleep, but I was restless. Just one page, I thought naievly. Once I read how cheesy it is, I'll be done with it for good. And at 2am on Wednesday morning, when I was more than halfway finished the book, I knew it was too late.

I was all in.

What I thought would be a childish romance novel is actually filled with amazing story development (slow, patient, descriptive) and character depth. I love the connections and how the characters relate. And I love, love, love Edward.

Sexy, beautiful, fictional Edward.

Wednesday, I woke up, anxious for the time I could put Little Chica down for her afternoon nap. My eyes were weary, but in that 3 hour time span, I finished the book. Upon closing the cover, I realized I had no other option but to go out and buy the second book so I could start it that night.

So I bought it. And in an impossibly short amount of time (ending at 2:45am), I finished New Moon in the early hours of Thursday morning. In just over 24 hours, I had read half of the Twilight Saga. I woke up today, tired. I need rest tonight (don't people start to go crazy from lack of sleep?), so I delayed getting the third book. That and Linzee could not meet up with me so I could borrow her copy until tomorrow.

But tomorrow, the adventure starts again.

And I think I like it.

So there you have it. The confession of an Anti-Twilight Zealot turned Twilight Fan. Where there was once hatred and disgust, there is now affection and camaraderie. I never thought I'd be here, in this place of pure hypocrisy.

Some of you know me, many of you do not. And I can only say that this level of Girly Girlness does not usually have a place in my life. I'm not a freak. I am rational. Logical. Grounded in reality.

But here I am.

Don't judge.

Where do you stand? Foe or friend of Twilight? I would love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment!

A Special Note to Jen: I hope you are ready to initiate your very own Facebook page. 2 down. Only 2 to go.

A Special Note to Stephanie Meyer: I am sorry I doubted your writing. For whatever it is worth, you rock.