Off to a great start

Happy New Year, rah rah rah. I know I fell off the blogging planet very suddenly, but things just conspired in such a way that I just couldn't blog for awhile. Even though I am a fan of blogging honestly and openly about a number of topics, there are just times when you can't write about what is going on. At least not publicly, and if that is the case, I avoid putting thoughts to paper altogether.

I used to spend a lot of time deliberating about whether or not there are some things one can't blog about, either because it's too painful, too fresh, too invasive of someone else's privacy. As an "artist," I wondered about integrity and firmly believed that self-censure was to be avoided. Now that I am an "adult," I realize that my youthful attitude was based on the fact that nothing of consequence or importance had happened to me yet when I thought that. I've now changed my mind.

So, anyway. Back. Still here. But I'm not even sure why I started writing this, because I'm so bored. I don't feel like I'm depressed, but I could be wrong. I do these little checklists: When was the last time you had fun/felt happy? (yesterday) Can you have fun/feel happy? (yes) Are you sleeping too much because you feel like hiding? (sometimes, but not this week) Is there anything you're interested in/looking forward to? (I'm enjoying watching The Killing, want to see Season 2 of Broadchurch, other tv shows, and I have some books I am looking forward to reading).

But interested in is sort of a misnomer, because what I mostly feel these days is boredom. I was reading my friend Bibi's blog yesterday. Bibi is 31, has four children under the age of 10 (including one-year-old twins), but she is brimming with energy and buzzing with projects she wants to tackle. All this while also staying at home with her kids and breastfeeding twins. I envy her *interest* in things! Where is my interest in things? Why does everything sound so boring? Even skydiving, which my friend Nicola does, just seems mildly dangerous and terrifying, but not really exhilarating or interesting. I'm sick to death of cooking and food. Baking doesn't really sound interesting, and I'm trying to lose the cookie baby I've been growing.

I know that my boredom is my responsibility. I admire and respect people who say they never get bored. But I'm not bored *this minute*-- I'm engaged in my writing. I read. I have engaging conversations. I have moments of non-boredom. I am existentially bored. Sometimes being in a small town for so long means that I have no idea of the interesting and exciting options that might be out there-- I don't even know what to google. I wish something would come along that I found utterly engaging. And right now I'm too tired and bored to make it happen for myself. I care, but not enough to do anything about it. It used to happen, with crocheting or knitting projects or deep exploration of every religion I could read about. But it's been so long that I can't really even remember what that excitement feels like. I wish I could remember what it feels like to fall in love or to be excited about something or someone, something besides coffee and cigarettes that could make me get out of my bed a little faster in the morning.