It was a good weekend.
And by “good”, I mean “completely unproductive”.
What more can a person ask for?
I mean, other than winning the lottery, and becoming suddenly and inexplicably handsome and semi-famous.
And when I say the weekend was unproductive, that is not entirely accurate. I did the usual, boring, mundane things one does on a weekend. Cleaned house, shopped, did laundry, pretended to pay attention when people were talking to me, etc etc etc. Hey, if I didn’t have to do those things and/or work for a living, I would have plenty of time to write the next great blockbuster novel. I might also be able to do things interesting enough to write about.
That has always been a dream of mine: to be an interesting person. I have often been accused of being a stick in the mud. However, people eventually stopped calling me that when they began to worry that they were doing a disservice to sticks everywhere that were tragically mired in mud.
So, apparently, even sticks lead more interesting lives than I do.
I take full responsibility for this. I had an opportunity to lead an interesting life when I was younger. In fact, I was quite fascinating up until about the age of 18 when, tired of living in poverty, I decided to better myself by going to college and getting a Real Job™. I became quite serious about getting my college degree and getting a job that payed actual money. (I was tired of being paid in french fries that had been under the heat lamp too long.)
So, I became “driven” and “focused”. Over time that eroded away the interesting bits of me and my personality became smooth and aerodynamic and a nice shade of gray. This came in handy while trying to not be noticed in meetings or lay-offs or unpleasant situations of high emotion.
But after a while it became unsatisfying. I began to pine for the days when I used to have jagged edges and garish splashes of color and quirky personal stylings. Life was much more interesting then, though extremely underfunded.
On the other hand, I remember so well what it was like to be penniless and to be a nobody. That was a different sort of invisible. It is one thing to be comfortably invisible. It is another thing to be invisible and to be miserable to boot. It is the difference between being a fog rolling in from a picturesque bay, or a malodorous wisp of swamp gas in a godforsaken marsh. (I have no idea what that metaphor means.)
But as I said, I accept full responsibility for this. It was a conscious choice I made in my youth and, for the most part, it has served me well. I have much to be grateful for and thankful for. I have been blessed in so many ways.
But sometimes the boredom chafes. The colorlessness irritates my eyes. The monotony erodes my soul. The sameness appalls my spirit.
But … Hey! There is another weekend in a mere 5 days. I’ll figure out how to do something interesting between now and then.