I've recently been questioning myself about..
I might be becoming a boring person.
There was a time when Friday nights meant getting dressed up, going out, seeing people, and possibly making decisions that seemed like excellent ideas until the next morning.
Now?
If someone cancels plans, I consider sending them flowers.
No plans. No obligations. No pants with buttons.
Just me, a bag of chips and salsa, and a murder documentary about a woman whose husband mysteriously disappeared after increasing his life insurance policy.
It's called self-care.
And I take it very seriously.
I spend my days talking to people. ALL. DAY. LONG.
By the time I get home, I've used approximately 147% of my daily allotment of words.
If my phone rings after work, I stare at it like it's a suspicious package.
Who is calling me? Why? Haven't we all suffered enough today?
And don't get me wrong. I love people.
I just don't necessarily want to interact with them after 6 p.m.
Which brings me to my current dilemma.
Am I actually becoming boring?
Because here's where things get confusing.
I'm the same woman who voluntarily climbed into a cage in the ocean to stare at great white sharks.
But if someone knocks on my door unexpectedly, I consider turning off the lights and hiding.
Just recently, I went to a corn maze with my daughter and grandkids.
A perfectly wholesome family activity.
Until somebody found a giant tractor tire.
Now, a reasonable 48-year-old grandmother might look at that tire and think, Oh, how fun for the children.
Not me.
I climbed inside it and let my granddaughter and daughter roll me around.
Like a damn hamster.
I got nauseous.
Apparently, my adventurous spirit is still 25, but my inner ear has filed for retirement.
Would I do it again?
Yes.
Would I complain afterward?
Absolutely.
And then there's the time I went parasailing hundreds of feet above the ocean and decided to see if I could hang upside down.
Because simply floating peacefully over beautiful turquoise water wasn't exciting enough.
Nope.
I needed to see if I could turn myself into a human bat.
But ask me to leave the house after I've put on my pajamas?
Absolutely not.
That's dangerous, irresponsible, and completely unreasonable.
I do have my limits, you know.
So clearly, I'm not completely boring.
I'm just... selective.
I'll go horseback riding, spend a weekend at the lake, travel, throw myself off a cliff, and risk being eaten by a shark.
But ask me to attend a social gathering after an 10-hour workday?
Suddenly, I'm a missing person.
Phone unanswered. Curtains closed. Nobody knows my whereabouts.
And thanks to approximately 4,000 hours of true-crime documentaries, I'm fairly confident I could pull off my own disappearance.
Translation: I'm already in my pajamas, and I'm not putting a bra back on.
Not even for cake.
Well...
Depending on the cake.
German chocolate, maybe.
I've decided that maybe getting older isn't about becoming boring.
Maybe it's about realizing I don't have to say yes to everything just to prove I'm living an exciting life.
Sometimes I want adventure.
Sometimes I want people.
And sometimes I want absolutely nobody to know I'm home.
I'm 48. I'm a mom, a grandma, and a reasonably responsible adult.
I pay bills. I go to work. I occasionally remember to buy groceries.
And every once in a while, I apparently need to be supervised around agricultural equipment.
So no, My conclusion to my thought.
I don't think I'm becoming boring.
I'm just get tired sometimes.
But…
Unless you're bleeding, dying, one of my grandchildren, or have an incredibly dangerous activity or adventure you'd like me to participate in... chances are… no.
Apparently this is growth.
