Some days, I feel like the most boring person ever. I move through my day, tidy a little, chat to the kitty, work, plan dinner. I feel happy and contented because I’m not in a rush (finally! a night when we don’t need to be anywhere 20 minutes after I finish work!) and The Boy is home and we can make dinner together.
We sit down at the table and… eat. That’s good, right? I mean, that is the idea behind a dining table. I just… I just kind of figured that I should have something to say, shouldn’t I? After all, dinner is the family re-group time, or I’ve always felt it is.
The sensible part of me isn’t too worried. We’ve been only in each other’s company for the past week, essentially, and I haven’t gotten out much (or any at all, today). Without something happening to me, I’m not expected to have stories and such, am I? (Seriously: am I? Should I be pouring out the latest wanderings of my thoughts instead, if I have nothing to talk about because I haven’t made it out to a KnitNite in two months?)
Most of me realizes I’m reading way too much into this.
There’s a small part though that wonders. The part that keeps thinking back to Our Town and how the (fictional) Doctor Gibbs, who met his (fictional) wife Julia on their wedding day was so pleased that after 20-some years of marriage they were still happily chattering away. (The fictional) Julia Gibbs, people! The woman raised children, cooked and fed chickens all day long! Well, I guess she also stopped to gossip (with a lot of hens) and go to (fictional) choir practice and stuff. So maybe I should relax. Maybe I can be Julia (minus the fictional chickens).
Right. I just need to relax a little, and get out more. I’m not boring, I’m just understimulated. Right? I need a t-shirt that says that.