A boring life and 5-star bourbon balls. Both a fantastic experience.

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.)

Where are all the angry people?

Sometimes a person just needs to scream!

I watch video after video of small business owners pissed off and screaming about losing their livelihoods.

Video after video of hard-working American’s pissed off over the government taking away our inalienable rights—right in front of us.

Video after video of pissed off citizens watching the election being stolen—right in front of us.

I watch video after video, one scandal after another showing corruption, crime, malfeasance, fraud, demoralization, profiteering, shady deals.

What are we doing about it—besides making videos that are being banned and censored??

Why are we not standing up by the millions? There arrrrrre millions of us! What the eff?

  • 58.9 million people are employed by small businesses – that’s 47.5% of the US workforce
  • 30.2 million small businesses make up 99.9% of all US businesses – holy shit
  • The number of small businesses that are open decreased by 28.8% from January 2020 to November 2020 – that’s more than a quarter of small businesses

If y’all think Trump is a real-life superhero and he’s going to rescue us, you’re due for a reality check. Trump is a man. A truly hated man by some very powerful and rich people. Trump can’t save us. WE have to save ourselves. WE HAVE TO SAVE OURSELVES. THERE ARE MILLIONS OF US.

THERE.

ARE.

MILLIONS.

OF.

US.

When we dance, we dance.

An old college writing instructor of mine once said, “Your goal is to express, not to impress.” He was referring to those writers who unleash—with great regularity—big words in stories.

He went on to explain that whether or not people indeed judge you on the words you use, and whether or not you can command an expanded vocabulary enabling you to debate philosophical precepts or lock academic horns with the clerisy, if you possess an extensive vocabulary, you should use it sparingly.

I read something yesterday. It was from a lecture: “The whole point of the dance is to dance.”

The whole point of the dance is to dance—what an excellent metaphor expressed in such simple words.

No, I haven’t been hitting the sauce. Dance is a metaphor for life. So if the whole point of the dance is to dance, then the entire purpose of living is to live.

I’m on the dance floor, folks.

You should see me. Never underestimate my fancy footwork. And step back because now and then, I wave my arms and toss my head. Lookin’ good, Mr. Kotter! comes to mind!

The whole point of the dance is to dance. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull off what it is I want to say in this story, but Ima try. No big words will be used.

I’ve been working hard — at planning my life and preparing for my future. Not always, but mostly. And I have been paying a hefty price in doing so. Turns out, I am using valuable time living *in a time* that is not actually here. Let me try again: I am using my time today *to live in a tomorrow*…

Profound, yet plain and obvious and simple. Not.

I am using my time today *to live in a tomorrow*

All my working, living, planning, and saving are being done to guarantee a good time coming tomorrow (and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…). This explains all the rock piling anxiety about ‘time.’ 

“I don’t have a lot of time.” “I can’t waste time.” “My time could be up anytime.”

So what am I doing? Sounds like my planning for the future is devouring my present. 

The lecture I listened to described this as a ladder that we all begin to climb starting in kindergarten.

If we are good enough in kindergarten, we can move up to first grade.

And that’s our goal. Get to first grade. If we learn particular skills and master what we need to in first grade, we can climb up to second grade. And so we work at second grade. And then the third grade. And so on. We’re always working to get to the next step because the next step is when it will all get good.

Eventually, we get to high school, and if we learn those courses and get those passing grades, we can move on to college. And in college, we take more courses and pass more classes to move on to graduate school. And from graduate school, if we get those grades, we can move out into the world and get that job that we studied for. And when we get that job and spend 10 or 15 years at it, we can one day be vice president. And once we become vice president, we only have to work another 10 years so that we can retire. We’re always living today for that place in tomorrow. See?

This ladder makes it quite clear that if I’m always living for somewhere that I’m not… If I’m always living to get to the next grade (a.k.a. future) I won’t be there once I get there. I’ll just be living in some other future that hasn’t yet arrived. That’s madness.

So I’ve been on this dance floor – a hard wooden, noisy, dark, and sweaty dance floor. And my heartbeat has been growing steadily. And I’m dancing but the song isn’t ending.

To wrap this up, it’s time to stop rushing around in great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond what my role in life today is. The song has no ending.

P.S. For those that are thinking, “Oh, stop and smell the roses? Is that what this chick is trying to say? Or, live every day like it’s your last?”

Well, no.

Live every day like it’s your first. (Whoa, was that an excellent metaphor expressed in simple words? I think it was.)