Where has my reading voracity gone?

For the first two and a half decades of my life, there was no better word for my reading habits than "voracious." I read everything I could get my hands on, memorized the layout of the library, including large chunks of the Dewey Decimal System, and looked upon people who got motion sickness as pitiable and deprived. When I got my learner's permit, I didn't know how to get to a single thing in my town because, as a passenger, I had my nose in a book before we backed out of the driveway. It was a way of life.

And now, between a few years of grad school and a few years of parenthood, I don't want to read new things. I reread fluff and old favorites, but I lack the ambition to dive into something new, even if it's similar to what I've already read. It's very sad, really. Something I miss about myself, but don't quite have the motivation to change, just yet.

I've reached a similar plateau with movies. I'm content to watch the same ones, or none at all, but have no desire to expand my mind with new ones. I haven't seen a single thing nominated for an Oscar this year; in fact, the last time I was in a theater was in early 2004, and I've only watched one new-to-me video in the past year.

I've just sort of burrowed down into a very comfortable, dare I say stagnant pattern. And until it starts to make me uncomfortable to be so comfortable, I'll probably just stay put.