I grew up in a small town where not too much went on. It was quiet, pretty, and populated by hard working people, who had polite conversation over the backyard fence or Sunday morning coffee katches.
In my heart, I longed for the exciting life. I vowed that when I grew up, I would move to California, live the wild life of movie stars and tempermental poets and I’d be a legend in my own time. Actually, as it turned out I was a legend in my own mind. I’ve found that by and large, California in its essence is not much different from the midwestern town where I grew up. People work, play, struggle, have dramas and moments of peaceful existence.
Despite my unrepentant yearning, I’ve accepted that life, in general, is boring. You work, you eat, you play and you sleep. There are moments of high interest, even excitement – but never the type they show in the movies. A disappointment? Sure, in some ways.
Yet recently, when an unexpected event happened in my life – my town of Normal was thrown right off my geographical map. It didn’t exist anymore and I wondered if it would ever resurface. I longed for the boredom and routine and the sense that everything was normal. Just normal. Nothing more. Nothing less. I felt weak in the knees and seasick from the uncertainty that had overtaken my life and thoughts.
Now, the tide has receded and the town of Normal has come back into view. I can feel the boredom (sweet boredom) returning. The routine, the same shit, different day ease that puts my adrenaline meter down below 100 and I sigh.
The lesson learned: You don’t know how good normal can feel until you don’t feel normal.