I'm not boring. You're boring!

I recently took an online writing course, because a stranger on the internet has to be smarter than me about how to take ideas out of my head and assemble them into some sort of socially acceptable pile of words. The essence of the course turned out to be ‘Don’t be boring.’

Tough talk from someone who doesn’t know me, but perhaps there’s some truth in the message.

So, since achieving this most basic of goals is seemingly out of reach, I asked Tonya, who was handy, for her input.

Tonya is a marine. (She has clarified that once a marine, always a marine.) She’s six years older than me. And she’s mostly built out of competence and punctuality. “I don’t think you’re boring.”

“That doesn’t help. The people online think I am.” I was sorting laundry onto the kitchen table while Tonya was drinking coffee and making cryptic notes on a clipboard.

“‘The people online’ covers a lot of the population.”

“Well, if the shoe fits…. See? Boring, even in my metaphors.” I sorted towels into a pile and started folding them.

Tonya studied me, twitched a half smile, and then scratched on her clip board papers. “You seem invested in your position.”

“Laundry is boring. Except this.” I held up exhibit A - some sort of barely-there wisp of fabric that had come from the basket. “This has to be Kona’s.”

“Probably. She likes red.” Coffee was sipped.

“Life can be boring,” The marine. “But it doesn’t have to be. You make your own path.” More scribbles appeared on the clipboard.

“In the past week, life has been un-boring,” I admitted. “Sharon comes home tomorrow.” I sorted unmentionables and suppressed helicopter images that fluttered across my brain.

“Kona texted the flight info.” Coffee samples.

Callie’s crop top proclaiming “Data IS Science!” landed in the tops pile. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not boring.”

“Maybe you need a cat,” Tonya offered, lifting her cup. She sipped, watching me flail around in my basket of torment. More shirts joined the tops and I shoved the towel stack aside to make space for an avalanche of socks.

“I don’t need one more person, or thing, to take care of. No cat.”

“Just an idea.”

I mated socks and wrapped them together.

“How do I end up with eleven socks and four pairs?” I displayed evidence.

Tonya smiled. “Now that’s boring.”

I sighed. “Maybe the missing ones are in witsec or something.”

“Have you ever considered your ruler?”

Completely lost, I looked at her. “My what?”

“Ruler. Measuring stick. Method of assessing things.”

“Oh. No.” I was still lost. Not an unusual condition for me whenever Tonya rolled out her ‘let me help you figure yourself out’ voice.

“Give me your extra socks.” I handed over the three abandoned twins, feeling life lesson #31 entering the queue.

“Why do you say these don’t match?”

“Because one is dirt colored on the sole, and an anklet, one has pink stripes, and one is mostly green. Or blue. Well, both, but different.”

“Aren’t they all socks?”

I was still lost. “Maybe fast forward to the point? We’ve got other things to do today.”

“My point is, you decided these didn’t match by one set of rules. By another set - like these two will keep me from getting blisters - they match.”

I love Tonya. Really I do. But everyone around me brings their own set of quirks.

“Mills, it’s the ruler. It’s the way you look at the thing that defines your path forward. I’ve worn worse socks than either of these in the sandbox. And was glad to have them.”

“So, you’re saying ‘boring’ is ok?”

“I’m saying, eff what other people think and figure out if you think you’re boring.”

I sat down. She didn’t blink. Another one of her irritating quirks. She slid the socks back to me and resumed coffee evaluations, still not blinking, and not looking away. I may have shifted uncomfortably.

“So, let’s say I think I’m boring. Now what?”

“Now you have a way to figure out how to not be. For you. Not for these other people.” She waved a hand around indicating the universe or something.

“I kind of like boring.” The admission flopped out on the table before I realized it had arrived at the gate. It lay there like a treasonous slug.

“Then you’re not boring. Because that is a state of mind. Let’s look at this another way. Are you happy?”

Sometimes I don’t want to solve problems. Tonya is not wired like me, so we continued down the path of ‘uncomfortable life truths’. “Yes, mostly. I mean, with us, here, yes.”

“Most people aren’t. They’re chasing something they can’t define. A false premise. And they allow an external validation metric to rule their lives.”

“I seriously wonder if you really went to marine school, sometimes.”

I folded t-shirts and tops to suppress the sparkles that were trying to flare in my brain.

“If you’re happy, you’ve achieved your goal. Everything else is just stuff to do. The world is your oyster.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means either, but I get your point.” I managed a smile and recalled my online training. “Maybe I’m not boring after all.” I put the folded items into the basket. “I do have stuff to do.”

“And people to do it with,” she added.

“Let’s run the vacuum around and do the dishes.” Tonya stood up. “Sharon won’t notice, but we’ll raise the tone of the place a bit anyway.” She gave me a hug and moved toward the sink, cup in hand.

I don’t know about your marine, but mine is full of surprises. And definitely not boring. I need a different kind of ruler to measure her. Maybe the kind they issue in marine school.

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