A student yesterday attempted to persuade me that the Karate Kid’s captivating,
killer Crane Kick requires the use of just one of his legs.
“That’s not even physically possible!” I disputed. “It was movie magic slight of hand…
You were distracted by the other guy as Karate Kid went to land!”
My student protested with all the logos an upper-middle class freshman can muster
and said, “How do you know? Have you ever even tried it?” and though I was flustered,
I told the sad truth…
“Oh, you bet I have, way back in the glory days of my youth!”
My student stared bewildered, because he knew what we all know –
that it’s lame to be bored, nay, it’s the lowest of low,
and adults aren’t allowed to spend their time
doing anything other than earning a dime!
And yet, I awoke this morning with the same sense of sad, slow, sauntering slink
that captured me during the crane-kicking, late summer mornings of teenage angst and not sleeping a wink.
And, so, rather than perfecting my “You just try to sweep the damn leg!”super-skilz,
I did what we adults do when we’ve nothing we should do because we’ve already paid the bills,
I cleaned the bathroom, completed the fat-busting, tummy-toning Biggest Loser workout on DVD with Bob,
I cooked an egg-white breakfast, obsessively tended my miracle-grown garden, and thought about putting in some extra time on the job.
But weekend grading is for those other teachers, you see,
the ones whose lives revolve around committees, rubrics, and essays, but that’s certainly not me.
I’m not at all like that; my life is so very much fuller, funner, and downright fetch…
that guy who’s at work right now – he’s a poor, pitiable wretch.
But I – I have so much more to keep me going, things that I must do,
and besides, I have yet today to even have my regular, daily, late-morning poo.
I haven’t laid out for fifteen minutes on each side, perfecting my, I-have-a-wedding-to-attend-next-month, almost effortless summertime hue.
I haven’t painted, then painted, then repainted my Impressionistic, “Starry Night” rip-off of Vincent’s enveloping, swirling blue.
Then, of course, there’s Starbucks, because caffeinated, repressed boredom has never once led a girl astray,
and I’ll certainly be more able to finish reading those nine books on my to-do list today,
once I dump
non-fat, no-whip white mocha of $4.64 mood-bump
into my bloodstream. Of course, I’ll grab a table intended for four
and spread out computer, coffee, books, lip-gloss, research, and more.
Then I’ll write a clever, poetic blog rhyme,
and download free music from the library, since I have the time.
Besides, I’ve been meaning to edit Weston’s 42-song,
playlist and soundtrack,
because it’s impossible, overwhelming, panicky stupidity to write when I lack
inspiration. And though there is absolutely no relief
for adult-onset boredom, I’m a writer who acts on the belief
that I must write when I can, and it’s not worthy of my craft
to spend a day feeling bored when I could instead draft
the newest, shiniest manuscript that will one day become
the great, 21st Century American novel that can’t fail to change
reader who awoke this morning feeling that terrible, horrible bore
that can only be defeated by the characters we adore.
And so… I WILL WRITE, because for we writers, boredom is prohibited
and Weston needs me to help him exist even if only in a limited,
fictional, on-the-page sort of way,
because, in his world, there isn’t a single bored, crane-kicking day.