Old Lady
My “boring” life is a complex dance between savoring the small pleasures and confronting existential angst that would make turtleneck sweat. Take, for instance, last Tuesday. I got up at 6:03 am, staggered to the kitchen, and steadily prepared my morning fuel. Stunning, I know. But then, the unanticipated occurred! The canine would have rather not been strolled. Goose, my lovable labradoodle who was a fur-tornado, just wouldn’t leave the couch’s call of soft comfort.
In the living room, we had a full-blown existential debate. Goose made a few strong focuses about the vanity of pursuing squirrels and I… well I might have cited Camus. It was profound. After that mind-bowing second, I embraced ordinariness like a warm, scratchy cover. Like a boss, I worked, paid my bills, and ate cereal for dinner. I think I had an epiphany about the duality of the human experience somewhere in there, but it could have just been gas. To the external eyewitness, my life is a beige watercolor of schedules, obligations, and Rachael Beam recipes.
Yet, brushed across that material are covered up profundities — lively patterns of pickle, oddity, and an intermittent cheddar pasta heated flawlessly. In my “boring” life, I’ve wondered if watching Paw Patrol causes my dog existential dread. I’ve argued passionately with myself about the economic and social repercussions of the McRib’s…
