My life has become nothing to blog about. Now, I am become Boring.
Not that before every night was party-hopping with the Olsen twins and doing molly, naked as a jay bird on a piece of industrial equipment. Or whatever the kids are up to these days. Still, my day-to-day routine hews closer to Al Bundy. Or Al Borland. Maybe Amanda Bynes the early years.
Perhaps this is what it’s like, the eventual plod into oblivion. Each day is going to work, coming home from work, discovering what creative things the dog hath wrought — You ate what? You pooped where? How’d you get that motorcycle up there on the high dive? — staring into the fridge with anguish and despair, removing pants, reopening and closing fridge, reading a book, rinsing, repeating.
I’ve been urged repeatedly to find this thing called a hobby. That that is the next logical step. Because apparently getting carded for the pure, unadulterated thrill of feeling young or live-blogging the demise of Western democracy aren’t “hobbies.”
Fine. The need for extracurriculars has never seemed more urgent than now, as the mysterious free cable TV we received has been cruelly taken from us, with nary an explanation. But it’s not like suddenly developing interests in things other than Lorde and ready-to-bake cookie dough is easy. I’ve tried.
Running is boring, unless you’re running from something. Most sport-y things require being outside, which is a no-go because in Florida, every time you step out your door you cheat death. Like the time there was that snake in my air-conditioning unit. With that in mind, racquetball seemed a perfect indoor fitness option. But …
The Squidward Tentacles aesthetic is a look — not a good one — and no one told me racquetball was bladder-emptying, balls-to-the-wall terror. Tennis is such a genteel sport, but put a wall in there and you’re dodging drone strikes.
My delicate sensibilities are perhaps more suited toward the arts — in theory. In practice, well, Exhibit A:
Everyone has suggestions, philatelists, philanderers and philistines alike. And before anyone says “cooking,” you can ask my crock pot for comment, if you can reach it via Ouija board.
Maybe this is an entirely incorrect way of looking at it. Maybe drinking
boxed wine on the dusty porch lanai is really all you need to be fulfilled. Maybe through years of constant stimulation, we’ve been conditioned for perennial states of activity, lest we allow ourselves to be bored. Maybe I don’t have to go weekly to the farmer’s market to be considered a qualified human …
I’ll just go buy a yoga mat.