On being boring

My son came back from work today in fine form. He and his colleagues had spent the afternoon dismantling faulty computers and rebuilding them from parts that still functioned as they should. He enjoyed the banter as much as the engineering; a good day at the office. My son is fifteen and on a week of work experience.

His dad is working nearby and my son has mentioned a few anecdotes picked up along the way. Apparently my husband has been known to complain to tech support; apparently he can be quite demanding. I laughed when I was told this, recognising the attitude and the description, but my son frowned at my reaction. He had divulged information from a secret world that I could not understand. I do not go out to work; I am boring.

How many blog posts have I now written about my recent neurosis? How much am I repeating myself, indulging an issue that is slowly being resolved? There are so many other things going on around me, and I have taken enough small steps now to feel that I have made progress. The mountain is being climbed; perhaps it is time to start thinking of other things as I ascend, before my sharing becomes tedious. Perhaps I have reached this state already and need to move on.

This is a good sign. I am no longer reeling under the impact of unexpected and uncontrolled feelings. I am no longer having to pour all of my energy into just going through the motions of my day. I am coping and I am healing. I am thinking of other things.

It is not unexpected for a teenager to find their stay at home parent dull and exasperating. With their burgeoning plans and hopes and dreams it is understandable that they should look at my life and wonder. I appear largely content to cook and clean, wash and iron, stay in most nights to read or write and go to bed an hour or even two before midnight. They must wonder at how I can feel fulfilled with this life I lead, and conclude that I am indeed dull.

I will not share with them, or anyone else, the world that exists inside my head. I invent characters whose lives unfold in complex and relentless detail; I write tale after tale in my mind, the adventures fantastical, magical, improbable. My characters may have skills or super powers; wealth and achievement; they may have survived a childhood of poverty yet overcome this to silently seek a ruthless revenge on those who tried to hold them down. My stories are convoluted and intricate; my heroines strong and unbeatable; most of all they are mine, never to be shared but never humdrum.

Perhaps, in a few years time, when I feel that my services are no longer required by my children, I will take up a new interest. Perhaps that is what I have already done here. I do not feel either the need or the desire to write down the fictional, fantasy adventures that entertain me in my head, but I do like to write. I enjoy pouring the words into my computer, playing with the expressions and fine tuning the narrative.

So, I read and write; walk and work out; cycle and swim; take care of my home, my family, my hens; dream my dreams. If I am enjoying how I am spending my time then that time is not wasted, and I have never felt that I have too much time on my hands. I always have more tasks that I wish to complete than I have hours in the day to tackle them. If others look on my life and wonder at what I do then perhaps it is because I choose not to share; perhaps by asking the question they show that they will not understand.

I do not expect my life to look interesting, neither does it need to. So long as I am not bored then I can live with being considered boring. I have my thoughts and schemes and interests. However my life progresses, so long as I can gain enjoyment and fulfilment from the experience, the actuality need not be noteworthy.

“Dance as though no one is watching you,
Love as though you have never been hurt before,
Sing as though no one can hear you,
Live as though heaven is on earth.”
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