Bored

My husband sometimes wakes up on a Sunday and tells me he has a lot to do.  When I inquire further, he might explain, “I have to do laundry, and fix the door, and watch a football game.”  Any more than three items on his list, and he can’t commit.  No promises.  

In response, I’ll look at my to-do list for the day.  It contains twenty-three items and an optional four more “in case I have time.”  

I don’t know how to be bored.  I remember making a study schedule in High School.  It blocked my day into 15-minute increments so that I could squeeze in a biology review between school and my part-time job, or finish my algebra in between piano lessons and babysitting.  

I remember having a panic attack in college because my steel drum band rehearsal went a little long, and I needed to squeeze in dinner before my waitressing shift, which would back right up into my RA duty.  

Sitting still is not my forte. 

I built a life around that busy-ness.  Teaching.  Kids.  Church.  Bell Choir.  Book club.  Curriculum committee.  Fundraising.  Pie making.  Tutoring.  Crochet class.  Yoga.  Crafting.  Cleaning.  Cooking.  So much cooking…

Football games. School plays. Driving places.  Driving back. Taxidermy class (not mine). Choir rehearsal (also not mine).  Game nights with friends and pot lucks and drinks with colleagues after work.  

*****

Today, I woke up early and put dinner in the crock pot.  I taught all day and I ran a crochet club after school.  I stayed a little late to finish up tomorrow’s copying and lesson plans.  But I didn’t want to go home.   

I cannot abide the thought of another night of television, or crocheting, or diamond art.  I don’t want to clean another thing or cook another thing or read another thing.  

I am bored.  

Bored.  

Bored??

Who am I?  “Only boring people get bored,” my dad used to tell me.  “Find something to do.”  

*****

Of course there are things to do.  I can write.  I can read or crochet or cook.  I suppose I could make plans with friends.  Or go shopping.  Paint the ceiling.  Fold some laundry.  

Exercise is probably a better option.  I need something that raises my heart rate.  I need a little adrenaline in my life.  The older I get, the more I gravitate toward ‘comfortable’ leisure.  I love sitting by my fireplace in cozy clothes.  I love sipping wine with friends at a local restaurant.  I love learning a new stitch and knotting yarn into something beautiful.  

But I miss the feeling of riding my motorcycle too fast around a hairpin curve.  I miss the thrill of being lost in a new city.  I dream about spring break; drunken karaoke and parasailing and truth or dare.  

What do you do for an adrenaline rush in your 40s?  I don’t have the money for travel.  I don’t have the stamina for running.  I’ve lost the desire to bungee-jump. 

Is this why people play pickleball? 

Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?  An almost-empty nest?  Am I going to be the kind of person who takes up polar plunging or skeet shooting? 

*****

I’m in my kitchen, making tea, with John Mellencamp singing in the background. “Life goes on… long after the thrill of living is gone.”  Damn.  I loved that song when I was 16.  It lands differently at 46.  

But I have to believe he’s a little bit wrong.  The thrill can’t be gone.  It didn’t disappear.  I just stopped seeking it.  I stopped taking risks.  I stopped trying new things.  I stopped meeting new people.  

Not on purpose.  Just because I have a beautiful, full, fulfilling life.  I stopped seeking because I had found what I was looking for.  

And as these kids grow and leave, as I move closer to retirement, I’m catching glimpses of what comes next.  I was so busy building this part that I forgot to plan for the next part.  

*****

The more I think about it, the more it seems obvious that THIS is the answer.  I’ve written myself out of my funk.  It’s what has always worked for me.  

Writing is my solace and my gift and my prayer.  It connects me to myself and to the divine and to you.  

For years, I’ve imagined what it would look like to focus more on writing; to strive for something published; to gain an audience for my musings.  

I just looked back.  I started this blog in 2017.  Eight years ago.  Back then, I didn’t really have time for writing.  I woke at 4am to jot down my thoughts before the kids got up.  I hid in my bedroom and typed while dinner roasted in the oven.  I wrote in the car during football practice.  Nearly a decade of stolen moments, necessary for my sanity. 

One hundred and fifty-seven posts.  More than 300 pages. That’s something. It’s a start, anyway.  

Talk about an adrenaline rush.  I can’t think of anything scarier than a book proposal.  I think I’m done being bored.  Thanks for the advice, Dad.  

Time to prove Mellencamp wrong.  Wish me luck.