could you keep it down im trying to be boring

Satisfied with my list, I turned to my partner, who was sitting beside me, though not, it seemed, in any way disturbed by existential crises. are ED surgeons, firefighters, criminal defence lawyers….are famous, living lavish lifestyles of which we can only ever dream.

like outdoor adventures and extreme sports.I thought a bit more, and added these to the mix after considering the expectations I put on myself to be ‘interesting’. Appreciate art, books and music (bonus points for creating any of these).Are well travelled (but not of the ‘I went to X city on Contiki’ persuasion).‘Do’ things, especially things that scare them.Then, I made a list.Īfter a few minutes, my list looked like this. So, to be boring is to be uninteresting, the very antithesis, clearly, of interesting.īut what makes something, or someone (double gasp) uninteresting? An overuse of parentheses? (Hopefully not.) What I think is interestingĪs soon as I came home that Sunday night, belly full, face warm, heart-stricken, I took out my journal once again and, scratching out ‘ Why I’m so unhappy’ I added instead, ‘ What interesting people do’. What does it mean to be boring?Ī quick Google of the word ‘boring’ tells me that, “as an adjective, boring describes something (or someone ) that is tedious, dull and lacking in interest.” I shake my head and start peeling carrots, listening now as he and my other brother strike up a debate about politics, throwing opinions around a topic about which I know almost nothing. Not for the first time, I wonder if I lead a boring life, if I’m boring, and the idea settles uncomfortably in my empty stomach. If it’s not an outdoor adventure of some kind, my brother’s weekends typically involve working in his garden, painting, adventuring with his black Labrador Hobbs, or attending games’ nights with his friends. This time, like many others, my brother, eyes alight, recounts a weekend spent exploring yesterday, it was a little-known gorge southwest of Brisbane. “Had a quiet one, did some cleaning, read my book.” He smiles, politely. I sat down in front of an empty Microsoft Word document and tried to create a structure for a novel I still don’t think I can write. I slept in, I read my book (Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library) and I journaled about my feelings: ‘Why I’m so unhappy’, I’d scrawled in my journal that very morning. It’s an innocuous one, offered as an easy in for conversation, but it’s also one that, for me, is fraught with deeper meaning, ugly presumptions lurking under the surface-level question. “What did you get up to this weekend?” My brother asks me one Sunday evening at one of our regular family dinners.

Could you keep it down im trying to be boring