It has recently come to my attention (by way of me) that I have a boring life. I have no one to blame for this but myself. I am too conservative (not in thought or philosophy- in fact the husband recently pointed out to me that I was a liberal, in which I think I doth protested too much, to which he pointed out that many of my beliefs were consistent with that of liberals, to which I was all, “Huh. I guess so.” I’m not sure yet how I feel about this but I’m pretty sure I don’t care.). It is my actions that are too conservative. I don’t take risks because OMG what if I get hurt? And also, I don’t like getting in trouble.
My single greatest act of rebellion was probably the time I threw a bouncy ball in chemistry class. Maybe they’re called Super Balls? I don’t know. They’re those super bouncy balls that you get out of vending machines at grocery stores (and depressing 24-hour diners). The boys in my class would take turns bouncing one or two a day off the walls, beakers, and lab desks (with the occasional rebound off Miss V’s head). Surprisingly, Miss V was not amused by this and confiscated them every day and tossed them her top desk drawer. That’s a far as her punishment went though, so maybe she did have a sense of humor about the whole thing.
Until Dark Day happened.
Dark Day was the day the boys decided to purchase the entire world’s bouncy ball supply, turn off the lights and unleash them all at once. All the girls knew what was coming but none of us did anything to stop it. In fact, some of us might have participated. And some of us might have been me.
I grabbed one of the bouncy balls and when the lights went out, I threw it.
Ha! Like I would actually be so daring.
What I actually did was let it fall from my hands where it bounced off the floor and hit my shin and rolled under the cabinet. At least, I assume that’s where it ended up. I don’t actually know because true to its name, Dark Day was dark, yo. I didn’t need my sight, though, to know that what was happening was epic. I kept my head ducked while a thousand orbs of rubber bounced off every surface of the room and every part of my private-school uniformed body with the skirt exactly two inches above my knee because following rules completes me.
The balls pinged off my body with the fervor of a bullet from a gun, but not before making deep impressions in my flesh. It was mildly traumatic, and I still have the dimples in my ass as a constant reminder of that day.
No wait, that’s just cellulite.
Miss V’s shrill voice cut through the mayhem as she screamed for someone to, “turn the lights.” Any humor she previously had about the bouncy balls was now gone. She was not happy. In fact, she looked like she wanted to cy. Which made me feel really badly about the part I had played in Dark Day.
Poor Miss V. She didn’t deserve this. She was so nice. She was always willing to stay late the day before a chemistry test to tutor me and a friend because we couldn’t be bothered to pay attention in class in the weeks leading up to said test.
In our defense, Chemistry was really boring.
Dark Day was a good reminder that it’s okay to play it safe in life. Okay, but mind-numbingly boring.
It’s not so much that I am unhappy by the ennui which fills my days. It’s just that I’m a writer (or at least trying to be). And in order to write about life, you have to live life. And not just any life but life that is Interesting! and Exotic! and Spectacular! Call me crazy, but I don’t think journaling the accounts of which 500 piece puzzle I purchased from the Dollar Store for my Friday night activity falls under any of those categories (I went with Wonders of Nature in case anyone is curious.).
Any writer worth her salt has a good imagination. Perhaps what I need is not a more exciting life, but a greater ability to imagine.
The husband would tell you that I'm perfectly well-equipped in that department. For awhile now, I’ve suspected that the neighbor who stands on his balcony and plays three notes on his trumpet (the husband says it’s a French horn. I say trumpet. Potato, Potahto.) every few weeks without ever getting better, is not, in fact, practicing as he would have you believe, but is, in fact, announcing that he has captured yet another female and locked her is dungeon to torture and kill her – a three note victory cry, if you will.
The husband argues that I am insane. I argue that this is a perfectly logical assumption and why is it exactly that we haven’t called the police yet? There are lives at stake!
He also thought it was ludicrous of me to think that our very attentive, overly polite waiter last night was a psychopath.* ( I’m sorry, but people just aren’t that nice.) (Also, the husband is right. Being overly-polite less implies psychopath and more expresses sociopath.)
A few weeks ago I sought to remedy my dull existence by running with a pair of scissors. There are few activities known to be more greatly forbidden than trotting about with sharp pointy things. Especially if those pointy things are facing in the general direction of up, as in toward your eye.
Violating this law must be a real thrill! A real heart thumper! A real vein-busting surge of adrenaline!
To make it even more of a thrill ride, I waited until the husband wasn’t home. Nothing amps up the excitement like knowing it will be hours before you are rescued should your jaunt with recklessness go horribly wrong.
I grabbed my favorite pair of blue-handled scissors (when breaking the rules, I recommend selecting only the finest of instruments with which to do it) and ran from my kitchen to my living room. And back.
You guys? It was not thrilling. I did not have to pee from excitement, nor poo from nervousness, nor did I excrete even one drop of sweat. (Nothing says danger like an adventure that ends with an ass-clenching run to the bathroom).
It’s possible that the experience fell short of my expectations because instead of actually running, I walked fast. Well, kinda fast. Because running with scissors? OMG I could get hurt!
Sometimes in life, you just have to call a spade a spade. And this spade? Is lame. And likes to do puzzles. So off I shall go to put together the 500 pieces of wondrous nature.
Rest assured, I will detail every unspectacular minute of it upon my return.
*For the record, I am an excellent judge of character and more often than not, my concerns are justified. It's called Woman's Intuition, ladies. Don't ignore it. And the next time you hear the strangled cry of a brass instrument, lace up those shoes and start running.