My life is boring.
I have been trying to sex up that sentence for the last 20 minutes. I tried a thesaurus, Grammarly editor, AND The Big Book of Words You Should Know to Sound Smart: A Guide for Aspiring Intellectuals, by Robert W. Bly. Yet, all I’ve got is “my life is boring” (and the word “apoplectic” which I will be using at some point because, boy, that word has a heartbeat).
My life is boring, but I love every unexciting detail about it. I know I love it because I’m neurotic when it comes to protecting it. Opposite to what you might be thinking, I’m not talking about guarding it against the looming threat of a socialist America. Or an imminent Harris-presidency that seems to be on the horizon. Or the emerging danger of one-party rule… No. I’m talking about my life in general.
(I snuck in my political viewpoint in an, oh yeah, very subtle way because it’s my blog and I wanted to.)
Everything I’ve wanted (and everything I haven’t) have been set in the same Eden, flourishing into a damn fine, intensely practical, dull existence.
I am: a woman of many interests, moods, quirks, and passions. I thrive in the madness of a crisis, and if there isn’t a legitimate one, I make one. I’m incredibly intolerant and aggressively protective. I am.
The bourbon ball.
Bourbon balls. I know no creative segue, but I have to tell you the story of the bourbon balls.
A few years ago, I worked with a woman – let’s call her Adele (because that’s her name). It was Christmastime, and Adele handed me a baggie with homemade bourbon balls. I was getting in my car and driving to a meeting when I ate all of them before reaching the first stop sign. I thought bourbon balls were made with some sort of bourbon-flavored extract. Well. They are made with real bourbon—five out of five stars. I had a very happy meeting. Now every year during the week leading up to Christmas, I ask Adele for bourbon balls.
Bourbon balls make me very happy. They delight me, and they don’t come with all sorts of instructions. I don’t have to heat them or chill them; they don’t need to be thawed or baked or wrapped or unwrapped. They don’t need to be handled with special utensils. Sheesh, all I have to do is take one out of the bag when I want one. And I can have one when I feel like having one —not a minute sooner, and I don’t have to keep them around any minute longer than I want—bourbon balls on my terms.
That’s. my. life.
My very boring life.
I have a daughter whom I see a few times a week.
I have a granddaughter whom I see a few times a week.
I have a gym.
I have my job.
I have a friend that makes the best bourbon balls this side of Kentucky.
I have three favorite foods.
I have a routine.
I have slight shifts in life.
I steadily exist in one spot.
Every few days (or sometimes every few hours, if I’m feeling apoplectic), I tune everyone out. The baby chick comes out of the shell when it is ready; the fruit falls from the tree when it is ripe, and we transform into Spirit when the time is right… don’t push the river. Let it be…
Allotting myself responsibility for what grows in my life is a powerful and fantastic feeling. Call it self-maintenance or whatever. I will disappear at times. I will check out, dip, abandon, flee, retreat, vamoose, go south, be gone. Don’t panic. I am precisely in the place I need to be. And don’t take it personally. Being cautious about who has access to me is not out of arrogance; it’s about protecting my space and my energy. This is how I am. I won’t be gone for any length of time — just long enough to pop in a bourbon ball (which will not get me Oliver Reed-strength drunk, even if I eat four at a time). In no way will I leave multitudes of die-hard admirers with nothing, except maybe uncontrollable fits of laughter. (Throngs of die-hard admirers. Ha. Ha. Ha.). Rhyme, reason, and rationale might be totally invisible to those who know me. Still, I promise you there is no chaos—only calculated moments of defense for my grossly boring life.
I know you are just as neurotic as I am when it comes to defending your life for good or ill—as you should be. I mean, we all know the challenges of 2020 are spilling out into 2021, and none of us really knows the extent of how our lives will be influenced with everything still to come, right? So, eat bourbon balls and go off the grid. Up your levels of self-care. Protect your energy. It’s OK to make this next chapter of your life invite-only.
Boring lives and bourbon balls. Both a fantastic experience. (Lush bath bombs and $20 face masks, also up there.)