Friday, June 13, 2014


                                             
BOREDOM


     When I was a kid, I used to say, “I’m bored.” My father would jump on that and reply,
“What? How can you be bored? There is so much to learn in this world. Go get busy. Look up something in the encyclopedia” (16th century Wikipedia) That certainly did not excite me. I just hurrumpped away, slapping my feet against the linoleum (17th century ceramic tile). 

     Over the years, I have gone through short cycles of boredom. For my particular wiring, boredom is poison. I get anxious and depressed. These brief bouts usually result in my “getting busy,” and reflecting on the concept of boredom.

     For me, boredom means that I am not passionate about anything at that moment. It doesn’t mean I have nothing to do. There is always plenty to do like dusting, washing down cupboards, scrubbing floors, squishing tiny spiders in the corners of every room, darning socks (what?). Boredom has nothing to do with what there is to do--it means what is there that I am excited about doing. 

     I listen to friends recite lists of 30-40 things they do everyday, and I just roll my eyes. Who wants to do all that, especially in one day. Out of the lists they recite, I cringe at 97% of their activities such as going for a mani/pedi. Who can sit still that long and have to pay for it too. Besides, the very kind people who provide this service don’t understand English, so I read a book while they pamper me. This just seems rude. 

     Other things on their lists include playing tennis in 93 degree weather with a heat index of 108 plus an added bonus of no-see-ums biting at exposed flesh, sitting in doctor’s offices (ugh), driving on Market Street anywhere (cell-phone-alley), etc. Nope, I’d rather sit home and check out the latest addition to Wikipedia.

     What do I do when I am passionless? This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I look back in my journal to passions of the past. I can always reignite my interest in macramé projects or build my buttocks with Jane Fonda or Denise Austen. These are so laughable, I am immediately tempted to get out the Murphy’s oil soap and start scrubbing down cupboards. I quickly come to my senses and begin doing research on this “Wiki” guy.