I've been thinking recently about what a waste of time it is to be bored, and how I spent so much time growing up in a small, worthless town pondering fruitlessly how bored I was, how I spent many an hour in many a classroom hunting for split ends. I certainly found ways to entertain myself, but a lot of my memories (like, oh, um, spending Friday night at the Win River car wash with Esp) having me wondering what in the hell I was thinking, being entertained by that. Then again, when I was at boarding school, the weekend trip to CVS was a highlight. It's all relative to your sense of containment, I guess. That's the other thing, and this is a definitive statement for myself only and in no way an endorsement: boredom can inspire creativity, but for the most part, it really just makes drugs hugely appealing. I'm not watching an eight hour ANTM marathon; I'm HIGH, and it just so happens I am sitting in front of the engaged television, the remote is across the room, and there is a huge bag of dried mangos sitting next to me. Ah, the perfect storm of contentment.
I am fortunate to be in the position I am, to live in this quirky little town (the tune, it has changed), to know a handful of decent people who love nothing more than a good adventure, and to have the emotional and financial means to keep myself entertained, be it the two hours I spent digging up my yard on Saturday morning and ended up playing bocce ball at a park I didn't know existed, or the appropriately named Sunday I spent wandering from my backyard to the hidden meadow a few blocks away, seeking just the right mix of sun, shade, privacy, and decent reading material. Did I mention I've canceled my cable television service? This is Huge for me, but that $80 a month is money better spent on decent baking chocolate and Paul Frank slippers anyway.
I covered my coworker's shift last night. I knew Sundays had been painfully slow, but I owed her a bit of a favor (she smokes me out, like, all of the time), and it was going to be at least $100 in my pocket. I've recently defined my financial goals*, so any extra pocket money is great, especially since I can't seem to kick this online shopping addiction I've discovered. You guys, I just bought $693 worth of clothes from The Original Penguin for $123. It's almost like they're paying me to wear Munsingwear, except that I'm still paying them.
To say it was slow is like calling a Chanel suit "just another outfit." It was magnificently, perfectly, utterly slow: there were just enough customers that I couldn't work on my law school applications without it being awkward and obvious, but not busy enough that I had anything to do but serve a round of drinks once an hour. I was, for the first time since college, BORED.
I made an entire box of matchbooks. I drank several diet Pepsis and Perriers. I cleaned out the office refrigerator. I wiped underneath the popcorn bowls. I did the fucking crossword in the weekly newspaper�and I FINISHED it, by myself, which, I really don't have the patience to finish a crossword puzzle anymore, least of all without cheating. I texted everyone I know who lives within an hour and begged them to come visit me. I watched The (original) Avengers on mute (highly recommended, if you must watch television without the sound). I ate a cookie. I timed myself to see how long it would take to wipe down everything in the bar: 5 minutes, but it felt like 20. I balanced the bag-o-change. I tried to play the "Who would I sleep with?" game, but there were no winners.
And then, it happened, that final release of the desperation that one feels just before succumbing to supreme Boredom. It's a relief more than anything, the acceptance that there is Nothing to do. The novelty of it, however, was striking. I mean, I've experienced passing waves of boredom in the past several months, but then I just go and do something else, go for a walk or put on a different CD or drive up and down San Marcos Pass (by far the most enjoyable stretch of road I've ever driven on). If I am bored at any of my other jobs, I just leave. But I was trapped in a bar, with nothing to do, no desire to drink, and at least four hours to kill. The acknowledgment of that truth was enough to spend the next few hours staring blissfully at absolutely nothing in particular.