Bored

It’s take over fifty days, but I am finally, gloriously, bored.

For the past several hours, I have been wandering about the house mildly irritated with myself for not being able to make a decision about what to do next. Since childhood, I have always been able to find something to do. But in recent years, and by that I mean the past decade – more likely two, those moments of boredom have been wisps that float by, insubstantial and fleeting.

I have this pathologically strong urge to not waste time, ever, for any reason. I could say it’s the Midwestern, Lutheran practicality and culture that’s been ground into me. But, it’s more that I have bought into the idea that time is scarce and there is never enough, and so there is guilt and shame and judgement in abundance. My mind is filled with the things I should be doing, if not for my health (exercising and meal planning) than for my career (write, research), my family (cook, clean, remember everything), my relationship (intimacy), my family (engagement, attention), and on it goes forever.

Today, I don’t have that. I feel that I have some space, just a little. The day didn’t get much done. All the tasks and relationships just mentioned are still there. But nothing feels urgent or behind or important.

If I had a moment in the past decade where I was not busy and could do nothing, it was more likely due to burnout, exhaustion, and/or ennui. Today is simple boredom. I’m reveling in it. I ended up coming here to write in order to recognize the moment. My dogs are lounging somewhere in the house. The weather is warm enough to open the windows and the light is fading to evening purple. I don’t know what I’ll do next and that’s fine.