The other day a friend asked what what going on in my life.
I hemmed and hawed…um, well, you know…and eventually settled on: “You know what? Not much really.”
We had just finished a 5K, raising $500 for the MSPCA, were enjoying a nice snack in an outdoor beer garden, and were about to head home to suck up the last few hours of a largely uneventful weekend. The day prior, I’d taken Sadie on a long walk in the Arboretum, and taken dozens of photos. I’d worked a puzzle (on my laptop, my latest brainless obsession). I had some web work to do for a friend, plans to do some laundry, and I wanted to cook myself a meal at home. And watch some Buffy reruns.
That was it.
I had no drama to share. Nothing more than the usual dysfunction at my job to talk about – and we can only rehash that so many times before it gets boring. No Grand Adventures on the horizon (though there will be, just haven’t made my decision – or saved enough pennies – yet). No new baby to rhapsodize about, no wedding or anniversary to celebrate – I include these because they seem to have taken over my facebook feed lately – and no tales of a new relationship (or even an old one).
Nothing really to write home about, as they say.
I felt lame.
I felt boring.
And I realized that this is at the heart of my restlessness lately. The feeling that it’s somehow wrong to simply be living my life in all it’s humdrum-ness.
This is not an original thought, I know. But why, I wonder? Why aren’t we content to just be where we are, in the moment, and be good with it?
It probably has to do with Mazlow’s hierarchy or something. Whatever it is, it’s kind of annoying. It would be nice to just say “nope, I’m just living my life and that’s fine”, and actually believe it.
So I’ll say it. I’m living. I’m cooking, running, reading, hiking, playing volleyball, working, hanging with my dog & my friends, exploring Boston, dreaming of my next trip…and not much else.
And that’s fine.
I almost believe it. Almost. 🙂