Dealing with Boredom

When I was young, my parents would ship me off to my grandparents' house for a month every summer. This was always a surprise, because who was going to clean the house in my absence? I was always excited to go, however, as it was a holiday from the back-breaking labors of laundry, sweeping, and dish-washing. These gross abuses of childhood were not required at Gramma and Grampa's House of Love and Caretaking, where questions like "What would you like for lunch?" were asked instead of the flippant "You know how to make a sandwich." My sister lacked the sensibility of flight (further evidenced later in life by her decision to marry the boy next door and move into the house across the street) and always opted to stay home. So I was often alone during these hot, summer days, and when my books ran low, the whininess ran high.

I'd drag myself into the kitchen, where I'd climb up on a stool and sprawl across the counter, pressing the cold granite to my cheek, moaning to the woman slicing up veggies or loading the dishwasher, "Gramma, I'm boooooooooooooored." And I'd always get the same response back: "You don't even know what bored is. Now go find something to do or I'll give you something to do." Familiar with this concept given my usual residence in House Abusive, I would immediately hop down from the stool: "Oh, look at the time! I think Grampa's watching Matlock!"

Now when I catch myself entertaining thoughts of boredom, I am instead convicted by the words of Samuel Butler: "He who lets himself be bored is even more contemptible than the bore."

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try to find old episodes of Price is Right on youtube.