The majority of my family still speaks to me but I’m not sure how much of an indication of non-boring status that is.
Am I boring? It’s a question that seems to arise in writers, poets, people.
Folks laugh at my stories. In fact, I nearly caused my sister to choke to death on a piece of pumpernickel.
I was relating a description my husband recently used to describe me to a friend. He was assuring said friend that once the drugs kicked in I would be sedated into civility. I believe he put it as such…
Hubby: “You know about the blue bird of happiness, right?”
Friend: “Uhhhh, yeah.” The note of wariness undoubtedly from him knowing us so well.
Hubby: “Well she’s being visited by the red vulture of I HATE EVERYONE.”
I shared this with my Sis, complete with pantomime of a screeching, pouncing vulture. She laughed, inhaled and eventually spewed hard salami, but not before turning some colors that really shouldn’t be seen on a human face.
Does this make me Not Boring? Naw, it just means that other people find humor in my crankiness.
One test of boringness I thought of is, do people’s eyes glaze over when I talk?
The unfortunate answer is yes.
I get the glassy eyed stare whenever I try to explain why one blue line tandem is better than another. Or when I defend the shift of a guy from 1st line to 3rd due to lack of production. Or when I wax poetic about how watching a 4th line grind it out in the corners is just as exciting as a pretty goal or save.
People get glassy eyed AND shift the topic of conversation whenever I start in on the merits of worm farming or composting.
One of my more memorable and embarrassing experience in the “how boring are you?” category was the time I rendered my Mother-in-Law comatose. It started out as such a lovely dinner, but eventually my inner dork surfaced and I recounted, with great enthusiasm, all I had recently learned about the slums of Mumbai.
I went on and on about the huge water pipes people use as walkways because the ground is so filthy. And about how the families were so densely packed that sixty-four could live in roughly the same amount of space my childhood home had occupied.
The poor woman was so stunned she couldn’t even muster the energy to change the topic. The best she could manage were a few helpless sounds of “Uh-huh…. uh…. Uh-huh”. The drool slowly oozing out of the corner of her mouth finally clued me in. Though I probably should’ve taken note of the smirk on my husband’s face and the looks of desperation she was throwing his way.
So, am I boring? I’m afraid the evidence points to a resounding YES.